ftltftlllf 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY   Of 
CAUK*NIA 


I  13       3.       Y 


'J  0  —   *"f  €/ 


POEMS 


BY 

"JOSIAH     ALLEN'S     WIFE 


(MARIETTA    HOLLEY.) 


ILLUSTRATED 
BY 

W.    HAMILTON    GIBSON, 


AND    OTHERS. 


FUNK   &  WAGNALLS,  PUBLISHERS. 
NEW  YORK:  l88?  LONDON: 

1 3    &    20    ASTOR    PLACE.  44    FLEET    STREET. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1887, 

By  MARIETTA  HOLLEY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


PS 


Hs 

mi 


DEDICATION. 


WlIKX  I  WROTE  MANY'  OK   THESK  VKHSKS    I    WAS    MUCH   YOUNGER   Til  AM 

I  AM  NOW,  AND  THE  "  SWEETEST  EYES  IN    THE  WORLD  "  WOULD 

r.RIGHTEN      OVER     THEM,     THROUGH     THE     HEADER'S 

LOVE  FOR  ME.       I  DEDICATE  THEM  TO  HER 

MEMORY — THE     MEMORY     OF 

MY   MOTHER. 


538 


I! 


PAGE          Jfi& 

WHAT  MAKES  THE  SUMMER  ? 

•              '        15            Jf 

THE  BROTHERS, 

17      «\ 

A  RICH  MAN'S  REVERIE,     " 

•     21        jk 

GLORIA  THE  TRUE,  . 

32        || 

THE  DEACON'S  DAUGHTER, 

.     37        jf 

SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW, 

40        If 

THE  COQUETTE,    . 

•    49     4ii 

LITTLE  NELL,    .... 

.         .         52       ™ 

THE  FISHER'S  WIFE,    . 

.         .     55        & 

THE  LAND  OF  LONG  AGO, 

59        W 

LEMOINE,        . 

.     61 

SLEEP 

65        P 

THE  LADY  MAUD, 

.     66       \\ 

THE  HAUNTED  CASTLE,    . 

70      M 

CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS,        .......  75 

FAREWELL, 83 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  NORMANDY, 85 

SOMETIME, 89 

MOTIVES, 92 

NIGHTFALL, 96 

His  PLACE, 97 

A  DREAM  OF  SPRING, 100 

WAITING, 101 

A  SONG  FOR  TWILIGHT, 104 

THE  FLIGHT,          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .105 

COMFORT, 107 

JENNY  ALLEN,       .........  109 

THE  UNSEEN  CITY, 112 

THE  WAGES  OF  SIN,             .                                                   .  114 

ISABELLE  AND  I, 121 

GOOD-BY,         ..........  126 

THE  SEA-CAPTAIN'S  WOOING,  .         .        .         .                 .  128 

IONE, 130 

SUMMER  DAYS,  .        .         .        .        .        .         .        .         .  133 

THE  LADY  CECILE,  .135 

HOME, 139 

STEPS  WE  CLIMB, 141 

SQUIRE  PERCY'S  PRIDE, 145 

ROSES  OF  JUNE,     .        .                 150 

MAGDALEN  A, 155 

MY  ANGEL, 158 

GRIEF, 163 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PA  OK 

WILD  OATS, 105 

AUTUMN, 167 

TIIK  FAIREST  LAND,  170 

THE  MESSENGER,  .....  173 

SLEEP, 175 

Tin:  SONG  OF  THE  SIREN, 177 

EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-TWO, 180 

A  \VKAHY, .  186 

Too  Low,    ......  187 

AT  LAST,        ....  189 

TWILIGHT,  .        .  191 

THE  SEWING-GIRL, 193 

HARRY  THE  FIRST,    ....  196 

THE  CRIMINAL'S  BETROTHED, 200 

GONE  BEFORE, 202 

A  WOMAN'S  HEART, 204 

WARNING, 206 

GENIEVE  TO  HER  LOVER/ 208 

THE  WILD  ROSE, 210 

OUR  BIRD, .  212 

THE  TIME  THAT  is  TO  BE,         .         .         .  213 


PREFACE. 


ALL  through  my  busy  years  of  prose  writing  I  have  oc 
casionally  jotted  down  idle  thoughts  in  rhyme.  Imagining 
ideal  scenes,  ideal  characters,  and  then,  as  is  the  way,  I  sup 
pose,  with  more  ambitious  poets,  trying  to  put  myself  in 
side  the  personalities  I  have  invoked,  trying  to  feel  as  they 
would  be  likely  to,  speak  the  words  I  fancied  they  would 
say. 

The  many  faults  of  my  verses  I  can  see  only  too  well ; 
their  merits,  if  they  have  any,  1  leave  with  the  public, — which 
has  always  been  so  kind  to  me — to  discover. 

And  half-hopeful ly,  half-fearfully,  I  send  out  the  little 
craft  on  the  wide  sea  strewn  with  so  many  wrecks.  But 
thinking  it  must  be  safer  from  adverse  winds  because  it 
carries  so  low  a  sail,  and  will  cruise  along  so  close  to  the 
shore  and  not  try  to  sail  out  in  the  deep  waters. 

And  so  I  bid  the  dear  little  wanderer  (dear  to  me), 
God-speed,  and  Ixm  voyay<'. 

M ARIETTA  IIOLLEY. 

NEW  YORK,  June,  1887. 


WHAT    MAKES   THE   SUMMER  1 

IT  is  not  the  lark's  clear  tone 

Cleaving  the  morning  air  with  a  soaring  cry, 

Nor  the  nightingale's  dulcet  melody  all  the  balmy 

night— 

Not  these  alone 
Make  the  sweet  sounds  of  summer  ; 
But  the  drone  of  beetle  and  bee,  the  murmurous 

hum  of  the  fly 

And  the  chirp  of  the  cricket  hidden  out  of  sight— 
These  help  to  make  the  summer. 

Not  roses  redly  blown, 

Nor  golden  lilies,  lighting  the  dusky  meads. 

Nor  proud  imperial  pansies,  nor  queen-cups  quaint  and  rare — 

Not  these  alone 


1C  WHAT  MAKES   THE  SUMMER? 

Make  the  sweet  sights  of  summer ; 

But  the  countless  forest  leaves,  the  myriad  wayside  weeds 
And  slender  grasses,  springing  up  everywhere — 
These  help  to  make  the  summer. 

One  heaven  bends  above  ; 

The  lowliest  head  ofttimes  hath  sweetest  rest ; 

O'er  song-bird  in  the  pine,  and  bee  in  the  ivy  low, 

Is  the  same  love,  it  is  all  God's  summer  ; 

Well  pleased  is  He  if  we  patiently  do  our  best, 

So  hum  little  bee,  and  low  green  grasses  grow, 

You  help  to  make  the  summer. 


THE   BKOTHEKS, 

HIGH  on  a  rocky  cliff  did  once  a  gray  old  castle  stand, 
From  whence  rough-bearded  chieftains  led  their  vassals — • 

ruled  the  land. 

For  centuries  had  dwelt  here  sire  and  son,  till  it  befell, 
Last  of  their  ancient  line,  two  brothers  here  alone  did  dwell. 

The  eldest  was  stern-visaged,  but  the  youngest  smooth  and 

fair 
Of  countenance  ;  both  zealous,  men  who  bent  the  knee  in 

prayer 

To  God  alone ;  loved  much,  read  much  His  holy  word, 
And  prayed  above  all  gifts  desired,  that  they  might  see  their 

Lord. 

For  this  the  elder  brother  carved  a  silent  cell  of  stone, 
And  in  its  deep  and  dreary  depths  he  entered,  dwelt  alone, 
And  strove  with  scourgings,  vigils,  fasts,  to  purify  his  gaze, 
And  sought  amidst  these  shadows  to  behold  the  Master's  face. 

And  from  the  love  of  God  that  smiles  on  us  from  bright- 
lipped  flowers, 

And  from  the  smile  of  Gofl  that  falls  in  sunlight's  golden 
showers, 


18  THE  BROTHERS. 

That  thrills  earth's  slumbering  heart  so,  where  its  warm  rays 

fall 
That  it  laughs  out  in  beauty,  turned  he  as  from  tempters  all. 

Prom   bird-song  running  morn's  sweet-scented  chalice  o'er 

with  cheer, 

The  child's  light  laughter,  lifting  lowliest  souls  heaven  near, 
From  tears  and  glad  smiles,  linked  light  and  gloom  of  the 

golden  day, 
lie  counting  these  temptations  all,  austerely  turned  away. 

And  thus  he  lived  alone,  unblest,  and  died  unblest,  alone, 
Save  for  a  brother  monk,  who  held  the  carved  cross  of  stone 
In  his  cold,  rigid  clasp,  the  while  his  dying  eyes  did  wear 
A  look  of  mortal  striving,  mortal  agony,  and  prayer. 

Though  at  the  very  last,  as  his  stiff  fingers  dropped  the  cross, 
A  gleam  as  from  some  distant  city  swept  his  face  across, 
The  clay  lips  settled  into  calm — thus  did  the  monk  attest, 
A  look  of  one  who  through  much  peril  enters  into  rest. 

Not  thus  did  he,  the  younger  brother,  seek  the  Master's 
face  ; 

But  in  earth's  lowly  places  did  he  strive  his  steps  to  trace, 

Wherever  want  and  grief  besought  with  clamorous  com 
plaint, 

There  he  beheld  his  Lord — naked,  athirst,  and  faint. 


THE  BROTHERS.  10 

And  when  his  hand  was  wet  with  tears,  wrung  with  a  grate 
ful  grasp, 

He  lightly  felt  upon  his  palm  the  Elder  Brother's  clasp  ; 

And  when  above  the  loathsome  couch  of  woe  and  want 
bent  he, 

A  low  voice  thrilled  his  soul,  "  So  have  ye  done  it  unto  Me.v 

Despised  he  not  the  mystic  ties  of  blood,  yet  did  he  claim 
The   broader,    wider   brotherhood,   with    every   race    and 

name  ; 

To  his  own  kin  he  kind  and  loyal  was  in  truth,  yet  still, 
I  [is  mother  and  his  brethren  were  all  who  did  God's  will 

All  little  ones  were  dear  to  him,  for  light  from  Paradise 
Seemed  falling  on  him  through  their  pure  and  innocent 

eyes  ; 
The  very  flowers  that  fringed  cool  streams,  and  gemmed  the 

dewy  sod, 
To  his  rapt  vision  seemed  like  the  visible  smiles  of  God. 

The  deep's  full  heart  that  throbs  unceasing  'gainst  the  silent 

ships, 

The  waves  together  murmuring  with  weird,  mysterious  lips 
To  hear  their  untranslated  psalm,  drew  down  his  anointed 

ear, 
And  listening,  lo !  he  heard  God's  voice,  to  Him  was  he  so 

near. 


20  THE  BROTHERS. 

The  happy  hum  of  bees  to  him  made  summer  silence  sweet, 

Not  lightly  did  he  view  the  very  grass  beneath  his  feet, 

It  paved  His  presence-chamber,  where  he  walked  a  happy 

guest, 
Ah  !  slight  the  veil  between,  in  very  truth  his  life  was  blest. 

And  when  on  a  still  twilight  passed  he  to  the  summer  land. 
Those  whom  he  had  befriended,  weeping,  clinging  to  his 

hand, 
The  west  gleamed  with  a  sudden  glory,  and  from  out  the 

glow 
Trembled  the  semblance  of  a  crown,  and  rested  on  his  brow. 

And  with  wide,  eager  eyes  he  smiled,  and  stretched  his 

hands  abroad, 

As  if  his  dearest  friend  were  welcoming  him  to  his  abode  ; 
Eternal  silence  sealed  that  wondrous  smile  as  he  cried— 
"  Thy  face  !  Thy  face,  dear  Lord  !"  and,  saying  this,  he  died. 

But  legends  tell  that  on  his  grave  fell  such  a  strange,  pun* 
light, 

That  wine-red  roses  planted  thereupon  would  spring  up 
white, 

Holding  such  mystic  healing  in  their  cool  snow  bloom,  that- 
lain 

On  aching  brows  or  sorrowful  hearts,  they  would  ease  their 
pain. 


A  KICK  MAN'S  KEVEIIIE. 

THE  years  go  by,  but  they  little  seem 

Like  those  within  our  dream  ; 

The  years  that  stood  in  such  luring  guise, 

Beckoning  us  into  Paradise, 

To  jailers  turn  as  time  goes  by 

Guarding  that  fair  land,  By-and-By, 

Where  we  thought  to  blissfully  rest, 

The  sound  of  whose  forests'  balmy  leaves 

Swaying  to  dream  winds  strangely  sweet, 

We  heard  in  our  bed  'neath  the  cottage  eaves, 

Whose  towers  we  saw  in  the  western  skies 

When  with  eager  eyes  and  tremulous  lip, 

We  watched  the  silent,  silver  ship 

Of  the  crescent  moon,  sailing  out  and  away 

O'er  the  land  we  would  reach  some  day,  some  day. 

But  years  have  flown,  and  our  weary  feet 
Have  never  reached  that  Isle  of  the  Blest ; 
But  care  we  have  felt,  arid  an  aching  breast, 
A  lifelong  struggle,  grief,  unrest, 
That  had  no  part  in  our  boyish  plans  ; 
And  yet  I  have  gold,  and  houses,  and  lands, 


A   MICH  MAN'S  REVERIE. 

And  ladened  vessels  a  white-winged  fleet, 
That  fly  at  my  bidding  across  the  sea  ; 
And  hats  are  doffed  by  willing  hands 
As  I  tread  the  village  street ; 
But  wealth  and  fame  are  not  to  me 
What  I  thought  that  they  would  be. 

I  turn  from  it  all  to  wander  back 
With  Memory  down  the  dusty  track 
Of  the  years  that  lie  between, 
To  the  farm-house  old  and  brown, 
Shaded  with  poplars  dusky  green, 
I  pause  at  its  gate,  not  a  bearded  man. 
But  a  boy  with  earnest  eyes. 

I  stand  at  the  gate  and  look  around 

At  the  fresh,  fair  world  that  before  me  lies. 

The  misty  mountain-top  aglow 

With  love  of  the  sun,  and  the  pleasant  ground 

Asleep  at  its  feet,  with  sunny  dreams 

Of  milk-white  flowers  in  its  heart,  and  clear 

The  tall  church-spire  in  the  distance  gleams 

Pointing  up  to  the  tranquil  sky's 

Blue  roof  that  seems  so  near. 

And  up  from  the  woods  the  morning  breeze 
Comes  freighted  with  all  the  rich  perfume 


A  MICH  MAN'S  REVERIE.  23 

That  from  myriad  spicy  cups  distils, 
Loitering  along  o'er  the  locust-trees, 
Scattering  down  the  plum-trees'  bloom 
In  flakes  of  crimson  snow- 
Down  on  the  gold  of  the  daffodils 
That  border  the  path  below. 

And  the  silver  thread  of  the  rivulet 

Tangled  and  knotted  with  fern  and  sedge. 

And  the  mill-pond  like  a  diamond  set 

In  the  streamlet's  emerald  edge  ; 

And  over  the  stream  on  the  gradual  hill, 

Its  headstones  glimmering  palely  white, 

Is  the  graveyard  quiet  and  still. 

I  wade  through  its  grasses  rank  and  deep, 

Past  slanting  marbles  mossy  and  dim, 

Carven  with  lines  from  some  old  hymn, 

To  one  where  my  mother  used  to  lean 

On  Sunday  noons  and  weep. 

That  tall  white  shape  I  looked  upon 

With  a  mysterious  dread, 

Linking  unto  the  senseless  stone 

The  image  of  the  dead — 

The  father  I  never  had  seen ; 

I  remember  on  dark  nights  of  storm, 

When  our  parlor  was  bright  and  warm, 

I  would  turn  away  from  its  glowing  light, 


A   RICH  MAN'S  REVERIE. 

And  look  far  out  in  the  churchyard  dim, 
And  with  infinite  pity  think  of  him 
Shut  out  alone  in  the  dismal  night. 

And  the  ruined  mill  by  the  waterfall, 

I  see  again  its  crumbling  wall, 

And  I  hear  the  water's  song. 

It  all  comes  back  to  me — 

Its  song  comes  back  to  me, 

Floating  out  like  a  spirit's  call 

The  drowsy  air  along  ; 

Blending  forever  with  my  name 

Wonderful  prophecies,  dreamy  talk, 

Of  future  paths  when  I  should  walk 

Crowned  with  manhood,  and  honor,  and  fame. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  the  rich  perfume 

Of  the  tropical  lily  fills  the  room 

From  its  censer  of  frosted  snow  ; 

But  it  seems  to  float  to  me  through  the  night 

From  those  apple-blossoms  red  and  white 

That  starred  the  orchard's  fragrant  gloom  ; 

Those  old  boughs  hanging  low, 

Where  my  sister's  swing  swayed  to  and  fro 

Through  the  scented  aisles  of  the  air ; 

While  her  merry  voice  and  her  laugh  rung  out 

Like  a  bird's,  to  answer  my  brother's  shout, 

As  he  shook  the  boughs  o'er  her  curly  head, 


A  RICH  MAN'S  REVERIE. 

Till  the  blossoms  fell  in  a  rosy  rain 

On  her  neck  and  her  shining  hair. 

Oh,  little  Belle  ! 

Oh,  little  sister,  I  loved  so  well ; 

It  seems  to  me  almost  as  if  she  died 

In  that  lost  time  so  gay  and  fair, 

And  was  buried  in  childhood's  sunny  plain  ; 

And  she  who  walks  the  street  to-day, 

Or  in  gilded  carriage  sweeps  through  the  town 

Staring  her  humbler  sisters  down, 

With  her  jewels  gleaming  like  lucent  flame, 

Proud  of  her  grandeur  and  fine  array, 

Is  only  a  stranger,  who  bears  her  name. 

And  the  little  boy  who  played  with  me. 
Hunting  birds'-nests  in  sheltered  nooks, 
Trudging  at  nightfall  after  the  cows, 
Exploring  the  barn-loft,  fording  the  brooks, 

ending,  in  school-time,  puzzled  brows 
Over  the  same  small  lesson  books  ; 
Who  knelt  by  my  side  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Praying  "  the  Lord  our  souls  to  keep," 
Then  on  the  same  pillow  fell  asleep, 
Hushed  by  our  mother's  evening  hymn  ; 
Whose  heart  and  mine  kept  such  perfect  time, 
Such  loving  cadence,  such  tender  rhyme, 
Blent  in  child  grief,  and  perfected  in  glee — 


A   RICH  MAN'S  REVERIE, 

We  meet  on  the  street  and  we  clasp  the  hand, 
And  our  names  on  charitable  papers  stand 
Side  by  side,  and  we  go  and  bow 
Our  two  gray  heads  with  prayer  and  vow. 
In  the  same  grand  church,  and  hasty  word 
Of  anger,  has  never  our  bosoms  stirred. 
Yet  a  whole  wide  world  is  between  us  now  ; 
How  broad  and  deep  does  the  gulf  appeal- 
Between  the  hearts  that  were  so  near  ! 

I  have  pleasure  grounds  and  mansions  grand, 

Low-voiced  servants  come  at  my  call, 

From  Senate  my  name  sounds  over  the  land 

In  "  ayes  "  and  "  nays  "  so  solemnly  read  ; 

They  call  me  "  Honorable,"  "  General/'  and  all, 

Hut  to-night  I  am  only  Charley  again, 

I  am  Charley,  and  want  to  lay  my  head 

On  my  mother's  heart  and  rest, 

With  her  soft  hand  pressed  upon  my  brow 

Curing  its  weary  pain. 

But  never,  nevermore  will  it  be, 

For  mould  and  marble  rises  now 

Between  my  head  and  that  loving  breast ; 

And  death  has  a  cruel  power  to  part — 

Forever  gone  and  lost  to  me 

That  true  and  tender  heart. 


A  RICH  MAN'S  REVERIE.  27 

Oh,  mother,  I've  never  found  love  like  thine, 

Never  have  eyes  looked  into  mine 

With  such  proud  love,  such  perfect  trust. 

Never  have  hands  been  so  true  and  kind, 

To  lead  me  into  the  path  of  right — 

Hands  so  gentle,  and  soft,  and  white, 

That  on  my  head  like  a  blessing  lay, 

And  led  me  a  child  and  guided  my  youth ; 

To-night  'tis  a  dreary  thought,  in  truth, 

That  those  gentle  hands  are  dust. 

That  I  may  be  blamed,  and  you  not  be  sad, 

That  I  may  be  praised,  and  you  not  be  glad  ; 

'Tis  a  dreary  thought  to  your  boy  to-night, 

That  over  your  sweet  smile,  over  your  brow, 

The  clay-cold  turf  is  pressing  now, 

That  never  again  as  the  twilight  falls 

You  will  welcome  your  boy  to  the  old  brown  walls 

Of  the  homestead  far  away. 

The  homestead  is  ruined — gone  to  decay, 
But  we  read  of  a  house  not  made  with  hands, 
"Whose  firm  foundation  forever  stands ; 
And  there  is  a  twilight  soft  and  sweet. 
Will  she  not  stand  with  outstretched  hands 
My  homesick  eyes  to  meet — 
To  welcome  her  boy  as  in  days  before, 
To  home,  and  to  rest,  f orevermore  ? 


2$  A   RICH  MAN'S  EEVEETE. 

But  the  years  come  and  the  years  go, 

And  they  lay  on  her  grave  as  they  silently  pass, 

lied  summer  buds  and  wreaths  of  snow, 

And  springing  and  fading  grass. 

And  far  away  in  an  English  town, 

In  the  secluded,  tranquil  shade 

Of  an  old  Cathedral  quaint  and  brown. 

Another  grave  is  made — 

A  small  grave,  yet  so  high 

It  shadowed  all  the  world  to  me, 

And  darkened  earth  and  sky. 

But  only  for  a  time  ;  it  passed, 

The  unreasoning  agony, 

Like  a  cloud  that  drops  its  rain ; 

And  light  shone  into  our  hearts  at  last, 

And  patience  born  of  pain. 

And  now  like  a  breath  of  healing  balm 

The  sweet  thought  comes  to  me, 

That  my  child  has  reached  the  Isle  of  Calm, 

Over  the  silent  sea— 

That  my  pure  little  Blanche  is  safe  in  truth, 

Safe  in  immortal  beauty  and  youth. 

When  she  left  us  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
When  she  left  her  empty  nest, 
And  the  aching  hearts  below ; 
Full  well,  full  well  I  know, 


A  RICH  MAN'S  REVERIE. 

What  tender-eyed  angel  bent 

Down  for  my  brown-eyed  little  bird, 

From  the  shining  battlement. 

I  know  with  what  fond  caressing, 

And  loving  smile  and  word, 

And  look  of  tender  blessing, 

She  took  her  to  her  breast, 

And  led  her  into  some  quiet  room, 

In  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 

Oh,  mother,  beloved,  oh,  child  so  dear, 

Not  by  a  wish,  would  I  lure  you  here. 

My  son  is  a  bright,  brave  boy,  with  a  grace 

Of  beauty  caught  from  his  mother's  face, 

And  his  mother  and  he  in  truth  are  dear, 

Full  tenderly,  and  fond,  and  near 

My  heart  is  bound  to  my  wife  and  child ; 

But  the  summer  of  life  is  not  its  May, 

And  dreams  and  hopes  that  our  youth  beguiled, 

Are  but  pallid  forms  of  clay. 

JL  t/ 

There's  the  boy's  first  love  and  passionate  dream, 
A  face  like  a  morning  star,  a  gleam 
Of  hair  the  hue  of  a  robin's  wing — 
Brown  hair  aglow  with  a  golden  sheen, 
And  eyes  the  sweetest  that  ever  were  seen. 


30  A  RICII  MAN'S  REVERIE. 

Mary,  we  have  been  parted  long, 

You  were  proud,  and  we  both  were  wrong, 

But  'tis  over  and  past,  no  living  gleam 

Can  come  again  to  the  dear,  dead  dream. 

It  is  dead,  so  let  it  lie, 

But  nothing,  nothing  can  ever  be 

Like  that  old  dream  to  you  or  to  me. 

I  think  we  shall  know,  shall  know  at  last, 

All  that  was  strange  in  all  the  past, 

Shall  one  day  know,  and  shall  haply  see 

That  the  sorrows  and  ills,  that  with  tears  and  sighs, 

We  vainly  endeavored  to  flee, 

Were  angels  who,  veiled  in  sorrow's  guise 

Came  to  us  only  to  bless. 

Maybe  we  shall  kneel  and  kiss  their  feet, 

With  grateful  tears,  wrhen  we  shall  meet 

Their  unveiled  faces,  pure  and  sweet, 

Their  eyes'  deep  tenderness. 

We  shall  know,  perchance,  had  these  angels  come 

Like  mendicants  unto  a  kingly  gate 

When  we  sat  in  joy's  royal  state, 

We  had  barred  them  from  our  home. 

But  when  in  our  doorway  one  appears 

Clothed  in  the  purple  of  sorrow's  power, 

He  will  enter  in,  no  prayers  or  tears 

Avail  us  in  that  hour. 


A  RICH  MAN'S  REVERIE.  31 

So  what  we  call  our  pains  and  losses 
We  may  not  always  count  aright, 
The  rough  bars  of  our  heavy  crosses 
May  change  to  living  light. 


GLOEIA   THE   TKUE. 

GAYLY  a  kniglit  set  forth  against  the  foe, 
For  a  fair  face  had  shone  on  him  in  dreams  ; 
A  voice  had  stirred  the  silence  of  his  sleep, 
"  Go  win  the  battle,  and  I  will  be  thine.'! 

So,  for  the  love  of  those  appealing  eyes, 
Led  by  low  accents  of  fair  Gloria's  voice, 
He  wound  the  bugle  down  his  castle's  steep, 
And  gayly  rode  to  battle  in  the  morn. 

And  none  were  braver  in  the  tented  field, 
Like  lightning  heralding  the  doomful  bolt ; 
The  enemy  beheld  his  snowy  plume, 
And  death-lights  flashed  along  his  glancing  spear. 

But  in  the  lonesome  watches  of  the  night, 
An  angel  came  and  warned  him  with  clear  voice, 
Against  high  God  his  rash  right  arm  was  raised, 
Was  rashly  raised  against  the  true,  the  right. 

He  strove  to  drown  the  angel  voice  with  song 
And  merry  laughter  with  his  princely  peers ; 
3:>ut  still  the  angel  bade  him  with  clear  voice, 
"  Go  join  the  ranks  you  rashly  have  opposed." 


GLORIA   THE  TRUE.  33 

"  Oh,  Angel !"  cried  he,  "  they  are  few  and  weak, 
They  may  not  stand  before  the  press  of  knights ;" 
But  still  the  angel  bade  him  with  clear  voice, 
u  Go  help  the  weak  against  the  mighty  wrong." 

At  last  the  words  sunk  deep  within  his  heart, 
AVith  god-like  courage  cried  he  out  at  last, 
"  Oh,  Gloria,  beautiful,  I  can  lose  thee, 
Lose  life  and  thee,  to  battle  for  the  right," 

And  when  lie  joined  the  brave  and  stalwart  ranks, 
Like  Saul  amid  his  brethren  he  stood, 
Braver  and  seemlier  than  all  his  peers, 
And  nobly  did  he  battle  for  the  right. 

Gentlest  unto  the  weak,  and  in  the  fray, 
So  dauntless,  none — no  fear  of  man  had  he ; 
He  wrought  dismay  in  Error's  blackened  ranks 
So  nobly  did  he  battle  for  the  right. 

But  at  the  last  he  lay  on  a  lost  field ; 
Couched  on  a  broken  spear,  he  pallid  lay ; 
With  dying  lips  he  murmured  Gloria's  name, 
'•  The  rield  is  lost,  and  tliou.  art  lost  to  me." 

When,  lo !  she  stood  beside  him,  pure  and  fair, 
With  tender  eyes  that  blessed  him  as  he  lay ; 
And,  lo !  she  knelt  and  clasped  his  dying  hands, 
And  murmured,  "  I  am  thine,  am  thine  at  last." 


34  GLORIA   TUE  TRUE. 

With  wondering  eyes,  lie  moaned,  u  All — all  is  lost, 
And  I  am  dying."     u  Ah,  not  so,"  she  cried, 
u  Nothing  is  lost  to  him  who  dare  be  true ; 
Who  gives  his  life  shall  find  it  evermore." 

"  Methought  I  saw  the  spears  beat  down  like  grain, 
And  the  ranks  reel  before  the  press  of  knights  ; 
The  level  ground  ran  gory  with  our  wounds  ; 
Methought  the  field  was  lost,  and  then  I  fell." 

"  Be  calm,"  she  cried,  "  the  right  is  never  lost. 
Though  spear,  and  shield,  and  cross  may  shattered  be, 
Out  of  their  dust  shall  spring  avenging  blades 
That  yet  shall  rid  us  of  some  giant  wrong. 

"  And  all  the  blood  that  falls  in  righteous  cause. 
Each  crimson  drop  shall  nourish  snowy  flowers 
And  quicken  golden  grain,  bright  sheaves  of  good, 
That  under  happier  skies  shall  yet  be  reaped. 

"  When  right  opposes  wrong,  shall  evil  win  < 
Nay,  never — but  the  year  of  God  is  long, 
And  you  are  weary,  rest  ye  now  in  peace, 
For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

He  smiled,  and  murmured  low,  "  I  am  content," 
With  blissful  tears  that  hid  the  battle's  loss ; 
So,  held  to  her  true  heart  he  closed  his  eyes, 
In  quietest  rest  that  ever  he  had  known. 


THE   DEACON'S   DAUGHTER. 

THE  spare-room  windows  wide  were  raised, 
And  you  could  look  that  summer  day 

On  pastures  green,  and  sunny  hills, 
And  low  rills  wandering  away. 

Near  by,  the  square  front  yard  was  sweet 
With  rose  and  caraway. 

Upon  a  couch  drawn  near  the  light, 
The  Deacon's  only  daughter  lay, 

Bending  upon  the  distant  hills 

Her  eyes  of  dark  and  thoughtful  gray  ; 

The  blue  veins  on  her  forehead  shone 
'Twas  wasted  so  away. 

She  moved,  and  from  her  slender  hand 
Fell  off  her  mother's  wedding-ring  ; 

She  smiled  into  her  father's  face — 

"  So  drops  from  me  each  earthly  thing ; 

My  hands  are  free  to  hold  the  flowers 
Of  the  eternal  spring." 

She  had  ever  walked  in  quiet  ways, 
Not  over  beds  of  flowery  ease, 


38  THE  DEACON'S  DA  UGI1TER. 

But  Sundays  in  the  village  clioir 

She  sweetly  sang  of  "  ways  of  peace," 

Of  u  ways  of  peace  and  pleasantness," 
She  trod  such  paths  as  these. 

No  sweeter  yoice  in  all  the  choir 
Praised  God  in  innocence  and  truth, 

The  Deacon  in  his  straight-backed  pew 
Had  dreams  of  her  he  lost  in  youth, 

And  thought  of  fair-faced  Hebrew  maids — 
Of  Rachel,  and  of  Ruth. 

But  she  had  faded,  day  by  day, 

Growing  more  mild,  and  pure,  and  sweet, 
As  nearer  to  her  ear  there  came 

A  distant  sea's  mysterious  beat, 
Till  now  this  summer  afternoon, 

Its  waters  touched  her  feet. 

Upon  the  painted  porch  without 

Two  women  stood,  and  whispered  low, 

They  thought  "  she'd  go  out  with  the  day," 
They  said,  "  the  Deacon's  wife  went  so/' 

And  then  they  gently  pitied  him— 
"  It  was  a  dreadful  blow." 

"  But  she  was  good,  she  was  prepared, 
She  would  be  better  off  than  here," 


THE  DEACON'S  DAUGHTER.  39 

And  then  they  thought  "  'twas  strange  that  he, 

Her  father,  had  not  shed  a  tear," 
And  then  they  talked  of  news,  and  all 

The  promise  of  the  year. 

Her  father  sat  beside  the  bed, 

Holding  her  cold  hands  tenderly, 
And  to  the  everlasting  hills 

He  mutely  turned  his  eyes  away  : 
"  My  God,  my  Shelter,  and  my  Rock, 

Oh  shadow  me  to-day  !" 

He  knew  not  when  she  crossed  the  stream. 

And  passed  into  the  land  unseen. 
So  gently  did  she  go  from  him 

Into  its  pastures  still  and  green ; 
Into  the  land  of  pure  delight, 

And  Jordan  rolled  between. 

Then  knelt  he  down  beside  his  dead, 
His  white  locks  lit  with  sunset's  flame : 

"  My  God  !  oh  leave  .me  not  alone — 
But  blessed  be  Thy  holy  name." 

The  golden  gates  were  lifted  up 
The  King  of  Glory  came. 


SONGS    OF    THE    SWALLOW. 

SPRING. 

THE  sides  of  the  liill  were  brown,  but  violet  buds  had  started 
In  gray  and  hidden  nooks  o'erhung  by  feathery  ferns  and 

heather, 
And  a  bird  in  an  April  morn  was  never  lighter-hearted 

Than  the  pilot  swallow  we  saw  convoying  sunny  weather, 
And  sunshine  golden,  and  gay-voiced  singing-birds  into  the 

land  ; 
And  this  was  the  song — the  clear,   shrill    song    of   the 

swallow, 

That  it  carolled  back  to  the  southern  sun,  and  his  brown- 
winged  band, 

( 'lear  it  arose,  "  Oh,  follow  me — come  and  follow — and 
follow." 

A  tender  story  was  in  his  eyes,  he  wished  to  tell  me  I  knew, 
As  he  stood  in  the  happy  morn  by  my  side  at  the  garden- 
gate  ; 
Hut  I  fancy  the  tall  rose  branches  that  bent  and  touched  his 

brow, 

Were  whispering  to  him,  "  Wait,   impatient   heart,  oh, 
wait, 


SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW.  41 

Before  the  bloom  of  the  rose  is  the  tender  green  of  the  leaf ; 

Not  rash  is  lie  who  wisely  followeth  patient  Nature's  ways, 
The  lily-bud  of  love  should  be  swathed  in  a  silken  sheaf, 

Unfolding  at  wrill  to  summer  bloom  in  the  warm  and  per 
fect  days." 

So  silently  sailed  the  early  sun,  through  clouds  of  iieecy 

white ; 
So  stood  we  in  dreamy  silence,  enwrapped  in  a  tender 

spell ; 
But  the  pulses  of  soft  Spring  air  were  quickened  to  fresh 

delight, 
For  I  read  in  his  eye  the  story  sweet,  he  longed,  yet  feared 

to  tell  ; 
It  spoke  from  his  heart  to  mine,  and  needed  no  word  from 

his  mouth, 
And  high  o'er  our  heads  rang  out  the  happy  song  of  the 

swallow  ; 

It  cried  to  the  sunshine  and  beauty  and  bloom  of  the  South, 
Exultingly  carolling  clear,  "  Oh,  follow  me — oh,  follow." 


SPRING    SONG    OF    THE    SWALLOW. 

Oh,  the  days  are  growing  longer  ; 
So  rang  the  jubilant  song  of  the  swallow  ; 
I  come  a-bringing  beauty  into  the  land, 


SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

The  sky  of  the  West  grows  warm  and  yellow, 
Oh,  gladness  comes  with  my  light-winged  band, 
And  the  days  are  growing  longer. 

Oh,  the  days  are  growing  longer. 
The  wavy  gleam  of  our  fluttering  wings. 

Touching  the  silent  earth  so  lightly, 
Will  wake  all  the  sleeping,  beautiful  things. 
The  world  will  glow  so  brightly — brightly  ; 
And  the  days  are  growing  longer. 

Oh,  the  days  are  growing  longer. 
All  the  rivulets  dumb  will  laugh,  and  run 

Over  the  meadows  with  dancing  feet ; 
Following  the  silvery  plough  of  the  sun, 

Will  be  furrows  filled  with  wild  flowers  sweet ; 
And  the  days  are  growing  longer. 

Oh,  the  days  are  growing  longer ; 
Over  whispering  streams  will  rushes  lean. 

To  answer  the  waves'  soft  murmurous  call  ; 
The  lily  will  bend  from  its  watch-tower  green, 
To  list  to  the  lark's  low  madrigal, 

And  the  days  are  growing  longer. 

Oh,  the  days  are  growing  longer  ; 
When  they  lengthen  to  ripe  and  perfect  prime, 
Then,  oh,  then,  I  will  build  my  happy  nest ; 


SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW.  4.'! 

And  all  in  that  pleasant  and  balmy  time, 
There  never  will  be  a  bird  so  blest ; 

And  the  days  are  growing  longer. 


SUMMER. 


Now  sinks  the  Summer  sun  into  the  sea ; 
Sure  never  such  a  sunset  shone  as  this. 
That  on  its  golden  wing  has  borne  such  bliss  ; 
Bear  Love  to  thee  and  me. 

Ah,  life  was  drear  and  lonely,  missing  thee, 
Though  what  my  loss  I  did  not  then  divine ; 
But  all  is  past — the  sweet  words,  thou  art  mine. 
Make  bliss  for  thee  and  me. 

How  swells  the  light  breeze  o'er  the  blossoming  lea, 
Sure  never  winds  swept  past  so  sweet  and  low, 
No  lonely,  unblest  future  waiteth  now ; 
Dear  Love  for  thee  and  me. 

Look  upward  o'er  the  glowing  West,  and  see, 
Surely  the  star  of  evening  never  shone 
With  such  a  holy  radiance — oh,  my  own. 

Heaven  smiles  on  thee  and  me. 


44  SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

SUMMER    SONG    OF    THE    SWALLOW. 

You  will  journey  many  a  weary  day  and  long, 
Ere  you  will  see  so  restful  and  sweet  a  place, 
As  this,  my  home,  my  nest  so  downy  and  warm, 

The  labor  of  many  happy  and  hopeful  days ; 
But  its  low  brown  walls  are  laid  and  softly  lined, 

And  oh,  full  happily  now  my  rest  I  take, 
And  care  not  I  when  it  lightly  rocks  in  the  wind, 
For  the  branch  above  though  it  bends  will  never 

break  ; 
And  close  by  my  side  rings  out  the  voice  of  my  mate — 

my  lover ; 

Oh,  the  days  are  long,  and  the  days  are  bright — and 
Summer  will  last  forever. 

Now  the  stream  that  divides  us  from  perfect  bliss 

Seems  floating  past  so  narrow — so  narrow, 
You  could  span  its  wave  such  a  morn  as  this, 

With  a  moment  winged  like  a  golden  arrow, 
And  the  sweet  wind  waves  all  the  tasselled  broom, 

And  over  the  hill  does  it  loitering  come, 
Oh,  the  perfect  light — oh,  the  perfect  bloom, 

And  the  silence  is  thrilled  with  the  murmurous  hum 
Of  the  bees  a-kissing  the  red-lipped  clover ; 
Oh,  the  days  are  long,  and  the  days  are  bright — and 
Summer  will  last  forever. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW.  45 

When  the  West  is  a  golden  glow,  and  lower 

The  sun  is  sinking  large  and  round, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  spilling  o'er, 

(T littering  drops  that  drip  to  the  ground- 
Then  I  spread  my  lustrous  wings  and  cleave  the  air 

Sailing  high  with  a  motion  calm  and  slow, 
Far  down  the  green  earth  lies  like  a  picture  fair, 

Then  with  rapid  wing  I  sink  in  the  shining  glow  ; 
A-chasing  the  glinting,  gleaming  drops  ;  oh,  a  diver 
Am  I  in  a  clear  and  a  golden  sea,  and  Summer  will  Jast 
forever. 

The  leaves  with  a  pleasant  rustling  sound  are  stirred 

Of  a  night,  and  the  stars  are  calm  and  bright ; 
And  I  know,  although  I  am  only  a  little  bird. 

One  large  serious  star  is  watching  me  all  the  night, 
For  when  the  dewy  leaves  are  waved  by  the  breeze, 

I  see  it  forever  smiling  down  on  me. 
So  I  cover  my  head  with  my  wing,  and  sleep  in  peace, 

As  blessed  as  ever  a  little  bird  can  be  ; 
And  the  silver  moonlight  falls  over  land  and  sea  and 

river, 

And  the  nights  are  cool,  and  the  nights  are  still,  and 
Summer  will  last  forever. 

I  think  you  would  journey  many  and  many  a  day, 
Ere  you  so  contented  and  blest  a  bird  would  see ; 


46  SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

Not  all  the  wealth  of  the  world  could  lure  my  love  away, 

For  my  brown  little  nest  is  all  the  world  to  me ; 
And  care  not  I  if  brighter  bowers  there  are 

Lying  close  to  the  sun — where  tall  palms  pierce  the 

sky; 
Oh,  you  would  journey  a  wTeary  way  and  a  far, 

Ere  you  would  behold  a  bird  so  blest  as  I ; 
And  singing  close  to  my  side  is  my  mate — my  king— 

my  lover ; 

Oh,  the  days  are  long,  and  the  days  are  bright — and 
Summer  will  last  forever. 


AUTUMN. 

YES  !  yes !  I  dare  say  it  is  so, 
And  you  should  be  pitied,  but  how  could  I  know 
Watching  alone  by  the  moon-lit  bay  ; 
But  that  is  past  for  many  a  day, 
For  the  woman  that  loved,  died  years  air<>, 
Years  ago. 

She  had  loving  eyes,  with  a  wistful  look 
In  their  depths  that  day,  and  I  know  you  took 
Her  face  in  your  hands  and  read  it  o'er, 
As  if  you  should  never  see  it  more  ; 
You  were  right,  for  she  died  long  years  ago, 
Years  ago. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW.  47 

Had  T  trusted  you — for  trust,  you  know 
Will  keep  love's  fire  forever  aglow ; 
Then  what  would  have  mattered  storm  or  sun, 
But  the  watching — the  waiting,  all  is  done ; 
For  the  woman  that  loved,  died  years  ago, 
Years  ago. 

Yes ;  I  think  you  are  constant,  true  and  good, 
I  inn  tired,  and  would  love  you  if  I  could  ; 
I  am  tired,  oh,  friend,  tired  out ;  and  yet, 
Can  we  make  sweet  morn  of  the  dim  sunset  ? 
The  woman  that  loved,  died  years  ago, 
Years  ago. 

Not  a  pulse  of  my  heart  is  stirred  by  you, 
No ;  even  your  tears  cannot  move  me  now  ; 
80  leave  me  alone,  what  is  said  is  said, 
What  boots  your  prayers,  she  is  dead  !  is  dead ! 
The  woman  you  loved,  long  years  ago, 
Years  ago. 


AUTUMN    SONG    OF    THE    SWALLOW. 

The  sky  is  dark  and  the  air  is  full  of  snow, 

I  go  to  a  warmer  clime  afar  and  away ; 
Though  my  heart  is  so  tired  I  do  not  care  for  it  now, 


48  SONGS  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

But  here  in  my  empty  nest  I  cannot  stay; 

Thus  cried  the  swallow, 
I  go  from  the  falling  snow,  oh,  follow  me — oh,  follow. 

One  night  my  mate  came  home  with  a  broken  wing, 
So  lie  died  ;  and  my  brood  went  long  ago  ; 

And  I  am  alone,  and  I  have  no  heart  to  sing, 
With  no  one  to  hear  my  song,  and  I  must  go ; 
Thus  cried  the  swallow, 

Away  from  dust  and  decay,  oh,  follow  me — oh.  follow. 

But  I  think  I  will  never  find  so  warm  and  safe  a  nest, 
As  my  home,  in  the  pleasant  days  gone  by,  gone  by, 

1  think  I  shall  never  fold  my  wings  in  such  happy  rest, 
Never  again — oh,  never  again  till  I  die ; 
Thus  cried  the  swallow, 

But  I  go  from  the  falling  snow,  oh,  follow  me — oh,  follow 


THE  COQUETTE. 

How  can  I  be  to  blame  ? 

Is  it  my  fault  I  am  fair  ? 
I  did  not  fashion  my  features, 

Or  brush  the  gold  in  my  hair  ; 
Because  my  eyes  are  so  blue  and  bright, 

Must  I  never  look  up  from  the  ground, 
But  put  out  with  my  eyelids'  snow  their  light. 

Lest  some  foolish  heart  they  should  wound  ? 

How  can  I  be  in  fault  ? 

I  am  sure  where  hearts  are  so  few, 
It  is  difficult  to  discern 

The  diamonds  of  paste  from  the  true ; 
I  thought  him  like  all  the  rest, 

Skilful  in  playing  his  part ; 
As  careful  at  cards  or  at  chess, 

As  winning  a  woman's  heart. 

I  am  sure  it  is  nothing  wrong, 

Nothing  to  think  of — and  yet 
I  know  I  lured  him  with  glance  and  song, 

Into  my  shining  net ; 


50  THE  COQUETTE. 

Provokingly  cold  at  first  lie  seemed, 
Like  crystal  to  smiles  and  sighs, 

]>ut  at  last  he  felt  the  magic  that  gleamed 
TH  my  dreamy  violet  eyes. 

And  I  led  him  on  and  on, 

Farther,  in  truth,  than  I  strove, 
For  lie  frightened  me  with  the  earnestness 

And  violence  of  his  love  ; 
These  calm-eyed  men  deceive— 

Had  I  known  the  man  had  a  heart, 
T  would  have  paused,  I  would,  I  believe. 

Have  acted  a  different  part. 

In  his  royal  indignation 

He  uttered  some  wholesome  truth- 
He  almost  roused  the  emotion 

That  died  in  my  innocent  youth  ; 
Emotion  that  lived  when  life  was  new. 

Ere  that  man  my  pathway  crossed. 
Who  played  me  a  game  untrue, 

When  I  staked  all  my  love,  and  lost. 

Oh  for  a  saintly  beauty, 

What  efforts  my  soul  did  make  : 

I  thought  all  goodness  and  purity 
Were  possible  for  his  sake  ; 


THE  COQUETTE.  51 

The  world  seemed  born  anew,  my  life 

Such  holy  meaning  wore, 
I  fancy  so  fair  and  fond  a  dream 

.Never  fell  into  ruins  before. 

Tie  toyed  with  my  fresh  affection 

As  he  breathed  the  country  air. 
To  refresh  him  after  a  season 

Of  fashion,  and  falsehood,  and  glare  ; 
Had  he  not  slain  my  tenderness, 

Had  my  life  been  more  sweet, 
I  might  have  known  nobler  happiness 

Than  to  humble  men  to  my  feet. 

But  now  I  love  to  lure  them  on, 

To  make  them  slaves  to  my  gaze. 
Like  serfs  to  a  conqueror's  chariot, 

Like  moths  to  a  candle-blaze. 
I  melt  most  royally  time,  the  pearl, 

And  quaff  the  cup  like  a  queen, 
And  forget  in  the  dizzy  tumult  and  whirl. 

The  woman  I  might  have  been. 


LITTLE   NELL. 

CLASP  your  arms  round  her  neck  to-night. 

Little  Nell, 

Arms  so  delicate,  soft  and  white. 
And  yet  so  strong  in  love's  strange  might ; 
Clasp  them  around  the  kneeling  form, 
Fold  them  tenderly  close  and  warm. 

And  who  can  tell 

But  such  slight  links  may  draw  her  buck, 
Away  from  the  fatal,  fatal  track  ; 

Who  can  tell, 

Little  Nell  ? 

Press  your  lips  to  the  lips  of  snow. 

Little  Nell ; 

Oh  baby  heart,  may  you  never  know 
The  anguish  that  makes  them  quiver  so  ; 
But  now  in  her  weakness  and  mortal  pain, 
Let  your  kisses  fall  like  a  dewy  rain, 

And  who  can  tell 

But  your  innocent  love,  your  childish  kiss 
May  lure  her  back  from  the  dread  abyss ; 

Who  can  tell, 

Little  Nell. 


LITTLE  NELL. 

Lay  your  cheek  on  her  aching  breast, 

Little  Nell ; 

To  you  'tis  a  refuge  of  holy  rest, 
But  a  dying  bird  never  drooped  its  crest 
With  a  deadlier  pain  in  its  wounded  heart ; 
Ah !  love's  sweet  links  may  be  torn  apart, 

Little  Nell ; 

The  altar  may  flame  with  gems  and  gold, 
And  splendor  be  bought,  and  peace  be  sold, 

But  is  it  well, 

Little  Nell  2 

Veil  her  face  with  your  tresses  bright, 

Little  Nell ; 

Hide  that  vision  out  of  her  sight — 
Those  dark  dark  eyes  with  their  tender  light — 
Uplift  your  pure  face,  can  it  be 
She  will  bid  farewell  to  heaven  and  thee, 

Little  Nell « 

No  ;  your  mute  lips  plead  with  eloquent  power, 
Her  tears  fall  like  a  tropic  shower ; 

All  is  well, 

Little  Nell. 

Close  your  blue  eyes  now  in  sleep, 

Little  Nell ; 
Her  angel  smiles  to  see  her  weep ; 


54  LITTLE  NELL. 

At  morn  a  ship  will  cleave  the  deep. 
And  one  alone  will  be  borne  away, 
And  one  will  clasp  thee  close,  and  pray ; 

Oh  Liirle  Nell, 

Xever,  never  beneath  the  sun, 
Will  you  dream  what  you  this  night  have  done. 

Done  so  well, 

Little  Nell. 


THE   FISHEK'S   WIFE. 

A  LONG,  low  waste  of  yellow  sand 

Lay  shining  northward  far  as  eye  could  reach, 

Southward  a  rocky  bluff  rose  high 

Broken  in  wild,  fantastic  shapes. 

Near  by,  one  jagged  rock  towered  high, 

And  o'er  the  waters  leaned,  like  giant  grim, 

Striving  to  peer  into  the  mysteries 

The  ocean  whispers  of  continually, 

And  covers  with  her  soft,  treacherous  face. 

For  the  rest,  the  sun  was  sinking  low 

Like  a  great  golden  globe,  into  the  sea  ; 

Above  the  rock  a  bird  was  flying 

In  dizzy  circles,  with  shrill  cries, 

And  on  a  plank  floated  from  some  wreck. 

With  shreds  of  musty  seaweed 

Clinging  to  it  yet,  a  woman  sat 

Holding  a  child  within  her  arms  ; 

A  sweet-faced  woman — looking  out  to  sea 

With  dark,  patient  eyes,  and  singing  to  the  child, 

And  this  the  song  she  in  the  sunset  sang : 

Thine  eyes  are  brown,  my  beauty,  brown  and  bright, 
Drowned  deep  in  languor  now,  the  angel  Sleep 


56  THE  FISHER'S   WIFE. 

* 

Is  clasping  thee  within  her  arms  so  white. 
Bearing  thee  up  the  Dreamland's  sunny  steep. 
Oh,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

Thy  father's  boat,  I  see  its  swaying  shroud 
Like  a  white  sea-gull,  swinging  to  and  fro 

Against  the  ledges  of  a  crimson  cloud, 
A  tiny  bird  with  flutt'ring  wring  of  snow. 

Oh,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

Thy  father  toils  beyond  the  harbor  bar. 
And,  singing  at  his  toil,  he  thinks  of  thee  : 

Lit  by  the  red  lamp  of  the  evening  star 

Home  will  he  come,  will  come  to  thee  and  me, 
Oh,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

His  cabin  shall  be  bright  with  flowers  sweet. 
The  table  shall  be  set,  the  fire  shall  glow, 

We'll  wait  within  the  door,  his  coming  steps  to  greet, 
And  if  my  eye  be  sad,  he  will  not  know — 
Oh,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

He  will  not  pause  to  ponder  things  so  slight, 
He  is  not  one  a  smile  to  prize  or  miss ; 

Yet  he  would  shield  us  with  a  strong  arm's  might, 
And  he  will  meet  us  with  a  loving  kiss — 

Oh,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 


THE  FISHERS   WIFE.  57 

But  would  I  could  forget  those  other  days 

When  if  with  gayer  gleam  mine  eyes  had  shone. 

Or.  shade  of  sorrow,  gentlest  eyes  would  ga/c 
AVith  tender  questioning  into  my  own. 

Oil,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

Thine  eyes  are  brown — thou  hast  thy  father's  eyes, 
But  those,  my  darling,  those  were  clear  and  blue. 

Ah,  me !  how  sorrowfully  that  sea-bird  cries, 
( Vies  for  its  mate,  oh,  tender  bird  and  true ; 
My  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

Oh,  of  my  truest  love  well  worthy  he, 
And  near  was  I,  ah,  nearest  to  his  heart ; 

But  ships  are  parted  on  the  dreary  sea 
Swept  by  the  waves,  forever  swept  apart— 
Oh,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 

And  sometimes  sad-eyed  women  sighing  say. 
Sweet  love  is  lost,  all  that  remains  is  rest, 

So  in  their  weakness  they  are  lured  to  lay 

Their  head  upon  some  strong  and  loving  breast. 

Oh,  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 
-*  #  *  *  *  * 

( )ur  cabin  stands  upon  the  dreary  sands, 

And  it  is  sad  to  be  alone,  alone. 
But  on  my  bosom  thou  hast  lain  thy  hands, 

Near  to  me  art  thou,  near,  my  precious  one— 
My  baby,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 


58  THE  FISHERS   WIFE. 

The  red  light  faded  as  she  sung, 

A  chill  breeze  rose  and  swept  across  the  sea, 

She  drew  her  cloak  still  closer  round  the  child, 

And  turned  toward  the  cabin ; 

As  she  went  a  faint  glow  glimmered 

In  the  east,  and  slowly  rose — 

The  silver  crescent  of  the  moon. 

Another,  paler  light,  than  the  warm  sunset  glow, 

But  clear  enough  to  guide  her  home. 


THE  LAND  OF  LONG  AGO. 

Now  while  the  crimson  light  fades  in  the  west. 
And  twilight  drops  her  purple  shadows  low— 

We  stand  with  Memory  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
That  overlooks  the  land  of  Long  Ago. 

rnmoved  and  still  the  form  beside  us  stands, 
While  mournful  tears  our  heavy  eyes  o'erflow, 

As  silently  he  lifts  his  shadowy  hands, 
And  points  us  to  the  land  of  Long  Ago. 

Jt  lies  in  beauty  -neath  our  sad  eyes'  range, 
Bathed  in  a  richer  light,  a  warmer  glow  ; 

For  fairer  moons,  and  sunsets  rare  and  strange., 
Illume  the  landscape  of  the  Long  Ago. 

We  see  its  vales  of  peace,  its  hills  of  light 

Shine  in  the  rosy  air,  ah  !  well  we  know- 
That  nevermore  will  bless  our  yearning  sight, 
So  fair  and  dear  a  land  as  Long  Ago. 

We  see  the  gleaming  spires  of  those  high  halls 

We  garnished  with  bright  gems  and  precious  show ; 

No  foot  within  the  gilded  doorway  falls, 
Empty  the  rooms  within  the  Long  Ago. 


60  THE  LAND  OF  LONG  AGO. 

Troops  of  white  doves  still  haunt  the  shining  towers, 
And  fold  in  blissful  calm,  their  wings  of  snow  ; 

AW1  bade  them  build  their  nests  in  brighter  bowers, 
Hut  still  they  linger  in  the  Long  Ago. 

There  in  its  sunny  bay  stand  stately  ships, 

AW  freighted  for  fair  lands  where  we  would  go  ; 

Still  gleams  our  gold  within  their  secret  crypts, 
Becalmed  beside  the  shore  of  Long  Ago. 

.Between  that  land  and  this  of  dread  and  doubt, 
The  silent  years  have  drifted  trackless  snow  ; 

Hiding  the  pathway  where  we  wandered  out, 
Forever  from  the  land  of  Long  Ago. 


LEMOINE. 

IN  the  unquiet  night, 
AVith  all  her  beauty  bright, 

She  walketh  my  silent  chamber  to  and  fro ; 
Not  twice  of  the  same  mind, 
Sometimes  unkind — unkind, 

And  again  no  cooing  dove  hath  a  voice  so  sweet  and  low. 

Such  madness  of  mirth  lies 
In  the  haunting  hazel  eyes, 

When   the    melody  of   her   laugh   charms   the  listening 

night ; 

Irs  glamour  as  of  old 
My  charmed  senses  hold, 

Forget  I  earth  and  heaven  in  the  pleasures  of  sense  and 
sight. 

With  sudden  gay  caprice 
Quaint  sonnets  doth  she  seize, 

Wedding  them  unto  s\veetness,  falling  from  crimson  lips  : 
Holding  the  broidered  flowers 
Of  those  enchanted  hours, 

When  she  wound  my  will  with  her  silk  round  her  white 
finger-tips. 


G2  LEMOINE. 

Then  doth  she  silent  stand, 
Lifting  her  slender  hand, 

On  which  gleams  the  ring  I  tore  from  his  hand  at  Bay- 
wood  ; 

The  tiny  opal  hearts 
Are  broken  in  two  parts, 

And  where  the  ruby  burned  there  hangeth    a   drop   of 
blood. 

Then  with  my  burning  cheek. 
Raising  my  head,  I  speak, 

"  Lemoine,  Lemoine,  my  lost !     Oh,  speak  to  me  once,  I 

pray  !" 

But  no  word  will  she  deign, 
Adown  the  shining  lane, 

The  long  and  lustrous  lane  of  the  moonlight  she  glides 
away. 

I  fancy  oft  a  stir, 

Of  wings  seem  following  her, 

Trailing  a  terrible  gloom  along  the  oaken  floor, 
As  she  walks  to  and  fro  ; 
Louder  the  strange  sounds  grow 

To  a  nameless,  dreadful  horror,  that  floods  the  chamber 


And  then  I  raise  my  head 
From  terror-haunted  bed, 


LEMOINE. 


And  hush  my  breath,  and  my  very  pulses  hush  and  hark  ; 
But  as  I  glance  around, 
The  stir,  the  murmuring  sound, 

Dies  away  in  the  moonlight,  lying  there  stiff  and  stark. 


And  thus  you  ever  flee, 
Elude  and  baffle  me, 

My  lady  you  will  not  always  so  lightly  glide  away ; 
Though  on  the  swiftest  breeze, 
You  sail  o'er  farthest  seas, 

Eemember,  side  by  side  we  two  will  stand  one  day. 

Though  my  dust  feed  the  wind, 
Yours  be  with  prayer  consigned 

To  the  keeping  of  churchyard  seraphs  and  marble  saints  ; 
Lemoine,  we  two  shall  meet, 
And  not  then  at  my  feet 

Will  you  fetter  a  late  repentance  with  wiles  and  tearful 
plaints. 

Repentance  deep  and  strong, 
That  would  have  found  a  tongue. 

And  shrieked  the  truth  to  heaven  with  madd'ning  din  ; 
The  truth  of  that  dread  hour, 
That  black  accursed  hour, 

When  to  free  you  from  hated  fetters,  I  plunged  my  soul 
in  sin. 


«4  LEMOINE. 

Whatever  wise  man  thinks. 
Sin  forges  strongest  links. 

Von  can  break  them  never,  although  for  a  time  you  may 

hide 

[Juried  in  flowers  and  wine ; 
This  chain  of  thine  and  mine, 

At  the  last  dread  day  of  doom  will  draw  us  side  by  side. 

If  one,  then  both  are  cursed, 
And  come  the  best,  the  worst, 

Forever  and  ever  your  fate  and  mine  are  entwined  ; 
And  though  it  be  mad — mad, 
Heaven  knows  the  thought  is  glad, 

[  do  not  breed  my  thoughts,  how  can  I  help  my  mind. 


So  silent  doth  she  come, 
Standing  here  pale  and  dumb, 

With  her  iinger  laid  on  her  lips  in  a  warning  way  ; 
Her  dark  eyes  looking  back, 
As  if  upon  her  track 

And  mine,  some  phantom  shape  of  impending  evil  lay. 

But  when  I  strive  to  see. 
Of  what  she's  warning  me, 

Cruelly  calm,  no  sign  will  she  deign  to  love  or  fears  ; 
Unheeding  vow  or  prayer, 
As  noiseless  as  the  air, 

She  glideth  into  the  pallid  moonlight  and  disappears. 


SLEEP. 

COMK  to  me  soft-eyed  sleep, 

With  your  ermine  sandalled  feet ; 
Tress  the  pain  from  my  troubled  brow 

With  your  kisses  cool  and  sweet ; 
Lull  me  with  slumbrous  song, 

Song  of  your  clime,  the  blest, 
While  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

Your  dewy  fingers  rest. 

Come  with  your  native  flowers. 

Heartsease  and  lotus  bloom, 
Enwrap  my  weary  senses 

With  the  cloud  of  their  perfume ; 
For  the  whispers  of  thought  tire  me, 

Their  constant,  dull  repeat, 
Like  low  waves  throbbing,  sobbing. 

With  endless,  endless  beat. 


THE  LADY  MAUD. 

I  SIT  in  the  cloud  and  the  darkness 
Where  I  lost  you,  peerless  one ; 

Your  bright  face  shines  upon  fairer  lands, 
Like  the  dawning  of  the  sun, 

And  what  to  you  is  the  rustic  youth, 
You  sometimes  smiled  upon. 

You  have  roamed  through  mighty  cities, 

By  the  Orient's  gleaming  sea, 
Down  the  glittering  streets  of  Venice, 

And  soft-skied  Araby ; 
Life  to  you  has  been  an  anthem, 

But  a  solemn  dirge  to  me. 

For  everywhere,  by  Eome's  bright  hills, 

Or  by  the  silvery  Khine, 
You  win  all  hearts  to  you,  where'er 

Your  glancing  tresses  shine  ; 
But,  darling,  the  love  of  the  many, 

Is  not  a  love  like  mine. 

Last  night  I  heard  your  voice  in  my  dreams, 
I  woke  with  a  joyous  thrill 


THE  LADY  MAUD.  <>? 

To  hear  but  the  half-awakened  birds. 

For  the  dark  dawn  lingered  still, 
And  the  lonesome  sound  of  the  waters. 

At  the  foot  of  Carey's  hill. 

Oh  the  pines  are  dark  on  Carey's  hill, 

And  the  waters  are  black  below, 
But  they  shone  like  waves  of  jasper 

Upon  one  day  I  know, 
The  day  I  bore  you  out  of  the  stream, 

With  your  face  as  white  as  snow. 

You  lay  like  a  little  lamb  in  my  arms, 

So  frail  a  thing,  so  weak, 
And  my  coward  lips  said  burning  words 

They  never  had  dared  to  speak 
If  they  had  not  felt  the  chill  of  your  brow, 

And  the  marble  of  your  cheek. 

Life  had  been  but  a  bitter  gift. 

That  I  fain  would  have  thrown  away. 

But  I  could  have  thanked  my  God  on  my  knees. 
For  giving  me  life  that  day, 

As  I  took  you,  lying  so  helpless, 
From  the  gates  of  death  away. 

How  your  noble  kinsmen  laughed  and  wept 
O'er  their  treasure  snatched  from  the  flood, 


C8  THE  LADY  MAUD. 

And  your  white-faced  brother  brought  me  gold 

You  loved  him,  or  I  could 
Have  obeyed  the  fiend  that  told  me 

To  curse  him  where  he  stood. 

Gold  !  oh,  darling,  they  had  no  need 

Such  insults  to  repeat ; 
I  knew  the  Heaven  was  above  the  earth, 

I  knew,  I  knew,  my  sweet, 
I  was  not  worthy  to  touch  the  shoes 

That  covered  your  dainty  feet. 

I  knew  as  you  laid  your  hand  in  mine, 

So  kind  as  I  turned  away, 
That  we  were  severed  as  wide  apart. 

That  hour,  as  we  are  to-day, 
And  you  in  your  stately  English  home, 

So  far,  so  far  away. 

That  soft  white  hand  you  laid  in  mine 

With  a  smile  as  I  turned  to  go, 
Oh,  Lady  Maud,  I  marvel 

If  you  ever  stoop  so  low, 
As  to  wonder  what  those  tears  meant, 

That  glittered  on  its  snow. 

But  I  know  if  you  had  dreamed  the  truth 
Your  beautiful  dark  brown  eyes 


THE  LAD 7  MAUD.  69 

Would  only  have  grown  more  gentle, 

With  a  sorrowful  surprise ; 
For  a  nobler  and  a  kinder  heart 

Ne'er  beat  beneath  the  skies. 

You  never  meant  to  give  me  pain, 

But,  oh,  'twas  a  cruel  good, 
I  so  low  in  the  world's  esteem, 

You  of  such  noble  blood. 
That  you  stooped  to  as  gentle  words  and  deeds, 

As  ever  an  angel  could. 

I  blessed  you  for  your  brightness 

When  you  came  unto  our  shore, 
For  the  dull  earth  caught  a  beauty 

It  never  had  before  ; 
But  you  left  a  lonesome  shadow, 

That  will  lie  there  evermore. 

How  proud  the  good  ship  bore  you 

Adown  the  golden  bay, 
The  sun's  last  light  upon  its  sails — 

I  stood  there  mournfully  ; 
For  I  knew  it  left  the  darkness — 

Took  the  sunlight  all  away. 


THE  HAUNTED  CASTLE. 

IT  stands  alone  on  a  haunted  shore, 
With  curious  words  of  deathless  lore 

On  its  massive  gate  irnpearled ; 
And  its  carefully  guarded  mystic  key 
Locks  in  its  silent  mystery 

From  the  seeking  eyes  of  the  world. 

Oft  do  its  stately  walls  repeat 
Echoes  of  music  wildly  sweet 

Swelling  to  gladness  high— 
With  mournful  ballads  of  ancient  time, 
And  funeral  hymns — and  a  nursery  rhyme 

Dying  away  in  a  sigh. 

Pictures  out  of  each  haunted  room, 
LTp  through  the  ghostly  shadows  loom, 

And  gleam  with  a  spectral  light ; 
Pictures  lit  with  a  radiant  glow, 
And  some  that  image  such  desolate  woe 

That,  weeping,  you  turn  from  the  sight. 

Shining  like  stars  in  the  twilight  gloom 
Brows  as  white  as  a  lily's  bloom 


THE  HA  UNTED   CASTLE. 

Gleam  from  its  lattice  and  door ; 
And  voices  soft  as  a  seraph's  note. 
Through  its  mysterious  chambers  float 

Back  from  eternity's  shore. 

In  the  mournful  silence  of  midnight  air 
You  hear  on  its  stately  and  winding  stair 

The  echoes  of  fairy  feet. 
Gentle  footsteps  that  lightly  fall 
Through  the  enchanted  castle  hall, 

And  up  in  the  golden  street. 

And  still  in  a  dark  forsaken  tower. 
Crowned  with  a  withered  cypress  flower, 

Is  a  bowed  head  turned  away  ; 
A  face  like  carved  marble  white, 
Sweet  eyes  drooping  away  from  the  light, 

Shunning  the  eye  of  day. 

And  oft  when  the  light  burns  low  and  dim 
A  haggard  form  ungainly  and  grim 

Unbidden  enters  the  door  ; 
With  chiding  eyes  whose  burning  light 
You  fain  would  bury  in  darkness  and  night, 

Never  to  meet  you  more. 

Mysteries  strange  its  still  walls  keep, 
Strange  are  the  forms  that  through  it  sweep- 


72  THE  HAUNTED  CASTLE, 

Walking  by  night  and  by  day. 
But  evermore  will  the  castle  hall 
Echo  their  footsteps'  phantom  fall, 

Till  its  walls  shall  crumble  away. 


THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS. 

"  I  LEAVE  my  child  to  Heaven."     And  with  these  words 

Upon  her  lips,  the  Lady  Mildred  passed 

Unto  the  rest  prepared  for  her  pure  soul ; 

Words  that  meant  only  this :  I  cannot  trust 

Unto  her  earthly  parent  my  young  child, 

So  leave  her  to  her  heavenly  Father's  care  ; 

And  Heaven  was  gentle  to  the  motherless, 

And  fair  and  sweet  the  maiden,  Gladys,  grew, 

A  pure  white  rose  in  the  old  castle  set, 

The  while  her  father  rioted  abroad. 

But  as  the  day  drew  near  when  he  should  give, 

By  his  dead  lady's  will,  his  child  her  own, 

He  having  basely  squandered  all  her  wealth 

To  him  intrusted,  to  his  land  returned, 

And  thrilled  her  trusting  heart  with  terrors  vague, 

Of  peril,  of  some  shame  to  come  to  him, 

Did  she  not  yield  unto  his  prayer — command, 

That  she  would  to  Our  Lady's  convent  go, 

Forget  the  world  and  save  him  from  disgrace. 

But  hidden  as  she  had  been  all  her  life 
F>om  tender  human  ties,  she  loved  the  world 


76  THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS. 

With  all  her  loving  heart,  the  fresh,  free  world 

That  God  had  made,  and  this  life  seemed  to  her 

As  but  a  living  death.     A  living  tomb 

The  harsh  stone  walls  that  from  the  convent  frowned 

Upon  the  peaceful  valley  sweet  with  flowers. 

The  beautiful  green  valley,  threaded  by 

Bright  rivulets  that  sought  the  quiet  lake, 

Dear  haunts  sought  daily  by  her  maiden  feet. 

And  k%  wilt  thou  not,  for  my  sake  ?"  and  "  thou  shalt 

To  save  thy  sire  from  shame  !"     So  wore  the  days, 

And  still  she  did  not  promise,  though  she  wept 

At  his  wild  pleadings,  trembled  at  his  rage  ; 

Then  of  her  mother's  dying  words  he  thought — 

Her  dying  words — "  I  leave  my  child  to  Heaven." 

And  twisting  them  with  his  own  wishes,  wove 

A  chain  therewith  that  bound  her  wavering  will ; 

A  chain  made  mighty  by  the  golden  threads 

Of  rev'rence  and  of  holy  memories. 

And  so  with  heavy  heart  she  gave  her  vow. 

That  in  the  autumn  she  would  leave  the  world, 

But  first  for  one  free  summer  did  she  pray. 

And  through  those  bright  spring  days  she  roamed  abroad, 
And  poured  upon  the  winds  her  low  complaints  ; 
The  while  her  dark  soft  eyes  sought  all  the  earth, 
The  beauteous  earth  that  she  too  soon  must  leave ; 
And  all  her  mournful  murmurs  ended  thus 


THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS.  77 

With  this  sad  cry  of,  "  Oh,  the  happy  world  !" 
Ended  with  these  low  words  as  with  a  sigh, 
I  will  obey,  but,  "  oh,  the  happy  world  !" 

( )h,  wondrous  beauty  of  the  morning  skies'! 

Oh,  wide  green  fields  with  beady  dew  impearled  ! 
The  lark  soars  upward,  singing  as  she  flies, 

Oh,  wave  of  free,  swift  wings,  oh,  happy  world  ! 

Oh,  wordless  wonder  of  the  evening  sky, 

Far  ivory  citadels  with  flags  unfurled  ; 
Deep  sapphire  seas  where  rosy  fleets  float  by 

The  golden  shores  remote  ;  oh,  happy  world  ! 

Oh,  my  blue  violets  by  the  laughing  brook  ! 

My  shy,  sweet  darlings,  in  your  green  leaves  curled, 
Bright  eyes,  sometime  you  will  all  vainly  look 

For  me,  your  lover.     Oh,  the  happy  world  ! 

So  passed  the  days  of  spring,  and  she  must  sign 
Dull  papers  to  appease  the  hungry  law, 
And  to  the  castle  down  a  writer  came  ; 
No  graybeard  old,  and  dryer  than  his  tomes, 
A  tall,  fair-faced  youth,  with  bright,  bold  gaze, 
And  blood  that  leaped  afresh  like  crimson  wine, 
Rash  blood  that  led  him  to  leap  o'er  a  gate 
Five-barred,  within  the  mossy  park,  upon 


78  THE  8TORT  OF  GLADYS. 

The  knight's  old  stumbling  steed  that  played  him  false 

To  its  own  harm,  for  which  it  lost  its  life, 

More  fortunate  the  youth,  though  bruised  he, 

And  bleeding  from  his  many  grievous  wounds, 

And  Gladys  tended  him  with  gentlest  care 

Till  love  crept  in  and  took  the  place  of  pain, 

And  in  her  heart  took  Pity's  weeping  place 

And  dwelt  a  king.    He  knew  she  was  the  bride 

Of  Heaven,  not  to  be  vexed  with  earthly  love, 

But  yet,  upon  the  last  night  of  his  stay, 

As  by  the  lake's  low  marge  he  met  the  maid, 

And  saw  her  soft  eyes  fall  before  his  own, 

He  laid  an  almond  blossom  in  her  hand, 

A  blossom  that  both  sweet  and  bitter  is, 

And  said  but  this,  "  Say,  is  dear  love  a  dream  ?" 


,  not  a  dream,"  she  murmured,  looking  out 
To  where  the  light  upon  the  wraters  lay, 
A  golden  pathway  leading  to  the  sun, 
"  Dear  love  the  wakening  is,  this  life  we  live 
Is  but  a  dream."     Then  with  a  sudden  hope 
He  \vould  have  caught  her  hands,  but  no,  she  clasped 
Them  o'er  the  snowy  muslin  on  her  breast, 
And  on  her  heart  like  drops  of  crimson  blood, 
There  lay  the  almond  blossoms,  bitter,  sweet  ; 
And  far  away  her  pure  eyes  looked  adown 
That  shining  path  across  the  summer  sea, 


THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS.  79 

"  Nay,  life  a  long  dream  is,  a  sleep  that  lasts 
Until  we  waken  in  the  land  of  love." 
But  though  thus  calmly  did  she  speak  to  him, 
When  he  had  gone  to  hide  his  breaking  heart 
As  best  he  might,  to  bravely  bide  his  time, 
And  do  his  life  work  as  she  bade  him  do, 
Then  all  her  lonely  haunts  echoed  this  cry, 
This  cry  of  deeper  anguish — "  Oh,  my  heart!" 

Why  did  I  pray  for  one  more  summer  bright, 
The  outward  world  but  held  me  in  time  past ; 

Now,  life  and  love  have  added  links  of  might, 
A  chain  that  fetters  me,  that  holds  me  fast ; 

I  will,  I  will  obey,  but  oh,  my  heart ! 

My  life  wras  like  some  little  mountain  spring 
By  slight  waves  stirred  till  some  deep  overflow 

Swift  breaks  its  peace,  then  with  its  risen  king 
Down  to  the  mighty  deep  it  needs  must  go  ; 

Thus  did  I  follow  love,  but  oh,  my  heart! 

'  For  dear  love  sought  me,  claimed  me  for  his  own, 
And  called  me  with  his  voice  so  strong,  so  low, 
I  followed  unto  bliss,  thou  hapless  one, 

I  did  bethink  me  of  my  cruel  vow, 
The  vow  I  will  obey,  but  oh,  my  heart ! 


80  THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS. 

And  through  the  long,  still  nights  this  cry  was  hers, 

As  on  her  couch  she  lay  till  dreary  dawn, 

Her  large  eyes  dark  with  horror  looking  out 

Upon  the  pitchy  darkness  unafraid. 

And  as  the  breathings  of  the  new  spring  breeze, 

Soft  sighs  of  sad  complaint,  to  autumn's  storms 

That  hold  the  burdened  sorrow  of  a  year. 

Was  this,  her  sigh  of,  "  oh,  the  happy  world !" 

To  this  despairing  cry  of,  "  oh,  my  heart !" 

And  as  the  year's  late  winds  leave  pale  and  chill 

The  earth,  so  did  this  weary  cry  of  hers 

So  oft  repeated  leave  her  lips  like  snow. 

And  oft  the  lonely  midnight  heard  her  moan 

Of  hopes  foregone,  that  women  hold  most  dear. 

"  No  little  ones  to  ever  cling  to  me 

In  closest  love,  look  on  me  through  his  eyes 

And  call  me  mother,  bless  me  with  his  smile." 

Then  low  in  tearful  prayer  her  voice  would  sound 

Despairing,  wailing,  through  the  lonely  room, 

The  silent  turret  chamber  steep  and  high, 

"  Thou  maiden  mother,  Mary,  knows  my  heart, 

Thou  who  didst  love  and  suffer,  look  on  me, 

Oh,  pity  me,  sweet  mother  of  the  Christ !" 

Then  would  the  passion  of  her  woe  die  out 
In  dreary  calm,  and  as  a  chidden  child 


THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS.  81 

"Who  cries  himself  to  rest,  sobs  in  his  sleep, 

So  pitifully  would  sound  the  latest  words — 

"  I  will,  I  wTill  be  patient,  and  obey." 

But  all  the  long  days'  silent  anguish,  all 

These  secret  trysts  she  kept  alone  with  pain 

Wore  her  meek  face,  till  like  a  spirit's  looked 

It,  gleaming  white  from  out  her  shadowy  hair, 

And  so  the  last  day  came,  the  day  of  doom, 

The  dreaded  day  wrhen  she  should  leave  the  world. 

But  He  who  holdeth  little  useless  birds 

In  His  protecting  care,  looked  tenderly 

Upon  this  patient  soul,  so  sorely  tried. 

This  sweet  soul  purified  by  all  its  pain, 

For  on  this  day,  so  fair  a  morn,  it  seemed 

A  heavenly  peace  sunk  down  to  this  sad  earth 

From  gate  ajar,  the  bright  and  pearly  gate 

Swung  widely  open  for  an  angel  guest. 

A  faithful  servant  climbed  the  winding  stair, 

Sent  by  her  eager  father  with  the  dawn 

To  rouse  her,  tell  her  that  the  hour  had  come 

When  she  to  save  his  name  should  leave  the  world. 

And  as  the  woman  stood  beside  the  couch 

She  said,  "  Sweet  soul,  she  talks  out  in  her  sleep." 

For  there  she  lay  with  closed  eyes  murmuring  low, 

With  mournful  brow  and  sad  lips,  "  oh,  dear  love." 

Then  cried  out  with  a  sob,  "  'tis  not  a  dream." 


82  THE  STORY  OF  GLADYS. 

Then  spake  of  blood-red  blossoms,  bitter,  sweet, 
And  with  her  white  lips  sighing  this,  she  sunk 
Into  what  seemed  to  be  a  dreamless  sleep. 

And  as  the  loving  servant  weeping  stood. 

Loath  to  awake  her  to  her  evil  doom, 

She  opened  her  large  violet  eyes,  and  gazed 

Upon  the  morning  sunlight  stealing  in  ; 

The  clear  light  trembling,  growing  on  the  wall, 

And  as  she  looked,  her  eyes  grew  like  the  eyes 

Of  blessed  angels  looking  on  their  Lord. 

And  high  toward  Heaven  she  lifted  up  her  hands, 

Then  clasped  them  in  content  upon  her  breast, 

And  cried  out  in  a  glad  voice,  "  oh,  my  heart '." 

And  with  such  glory  lighting  up  her  face, 

As  if  the  flood  of  joy  had  filled  her  heart, 

And  overrun  her  lips  with  blissful  smiles, 

She  left  the  world,  and  saved  her  sire  from  shame. 


FAREWELL. 

LIFT  up  your  brown  eyes,  darling, 

Not  timidly  and  shy, 
As  in  the  fair,  lost  past,  not  thus 

I'd  have  you  meet  my  eye. 
But  grave,  and  calm,  and  earnest, 

Thus  bravely  should  we  part, 
Not  sorrowfully,  not  lightly, 

And  so  farewell,  dear  heart. 

Yes,  fare  thee  well,  farewell, 

Whate'er  shall  me  betide 
May  gentlest  angels  comfort  thee, 

And  peace  with  thee  abide  ; 
Our  love  was  but  a  stormy  love, 

'Tis  your  will  we  should  part- 
So  smile  upon  me  once,  darling, 

And  then  farewell,  dear  heart. 

But  lay  your  hand  once  on  my  bra 
Set  like  a  saintly  crown, 

It  will  shield  me,  it  will  help  me 
To  hurl  temptations  down. 


FAREWELL, 


God  give  thee  better  love  than  mine- 
Nay,  dear,  no  tears  must  start, 

See,  I  am  quiet,  thou  must  be, 
And  now  farewell,  dear  heart. 


THE   KNIGHT   OF   NORMANDY. 

CLEAR  shone  the  moon,  my  mansion  walls 
Towered  white  above  the  wood, 

Near,  down  the  dark  oak  avenue 
An  humble  cottage  stood. 

My  gardener's  cottage,  small  and  brown, 

Yet  precious  unto  me  ; 
For  there  she  dwelt,  who  sat  by  me 

That  night  beside  the  sea. 

So  sweet,  the  white  rose  on  her  neck 

Was  not  more  fair  than  she, 
As  silently  her  soft  brown  eyes 

Looked  outward  o'er  the  sea. 

So  still,  the  muslin  o'er  her  heart 
Seemed  with  no  breath  to  stir, 

As  silently  she  sat  and  heard 
The  tale  I  told  to  her. 

"  It  was  a  knight  of  Normandy, 

He  vowed  on  his  good  sword 
He  would  not  wed  his  father's  choice, 

The  Lady  Hildegarde. 


86  TUB  KNIGHT  OF  NORMANDY. 

u  Near  dwelt  the  beauteous  Edith, 

A  lowly  maiden  she — 
Ah  !  still  unmoved,  her  dark  sweet  eyes 

Looked  far  away  from  me. 

"  Dearer  to  him  one  blossom  small 
That  had  but  touched  her  hand, 
Than  all  the  high-born  beauties — 
The  ladies  of  the  land. 

"  Dearer  to  him,"  quick  came  my  breath 

As  I  looked  down  on  her, 
But  the  white  roses  in  her  hand 

No  lightest  leaf  did  stir. 

Ah  !  wistfully  I  read  her  face, 

Full  gently  did  I  speak, 
No  light  dawned  in  her  tender  eye, 

No  flush  stole  o'er  her  cheek. 

"  He  wore  her  colors  on  the  field, 
He  went  where  brave  hearts  were ; 

Ah,  gallantly  and  nobly 
He  fought  for  love  of  her. 

"  He  loved  her  with  his  whole  true  heart," 

Now  like  a  sudden  flame 
Up  to  her  cheek  so  pure  and  white, 

A  flood  of  crimson  came. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  NORMANDY.  87 

Her  hands  unclasped,  down  to  her  feet 

My  flowers  unnoticed  shook  ; 
I  leaned  and  followed  with  my  gaze 

Her  glad  and  eager  look. 

I  saw  a  boat  sweep  round  the  rock, 

Kowed  with  a  steady  grace ; 
I  saw  the  fisher's  manly  form, 

His  brown  and  handsome  face. 

"  For  love  of  her,  to  victory 

He  his  brave  squadron  led, 
Then  broke  his  true  heart,  and  her  scarf 

Pillowed  his  dying  head. 

"  So  died  this  knight  of  Normandy, 

Died  with  his  sword  unstained ;" 
I  know  not  that  she  heard  my  words, 

So  near  the  boat  had  gained. 

I  said,  Heaven  bless  her,  in  my  heart, 

She  had  no  thought  for  me ; 
I  turned  away  and  left  them  there 

Beside  the  beating  sea. 

Behind  me  lay  the  sweet  moonlight, 

My  shadow  went  before, 
And  passed  a  dark  and  gloomy  shape 

Before  me  through  the  door. 


88  THE  KNIGHT  OF  NORMANDY. 

O  strange  and  sad  this  life  of  ours, 
This  life  beneath  the  sun  ; 

O  sad  and  strange  and  full  of  pain 
God  help  us,  every  one. 

God  help  us,  that  we  may  endure 

Like  him  of  Normandy  ; 
And  die  with  sword  unstained,  that  has 

Led  us  to  victory. 


SOMETIME. 

ON  the  shore  I  sit  and  gaze 

Out  on  the  twilight  sea, 
For  my  ship  may  come,  though  many  days 

I  have  waited  patiently  ; 
With  waiting  trusting  eyes, 

A  lonely  watch  I  keep 
For  its  silver  sails  to  rise 

Like  a  blossom  out  of  the  deep. 

It  is  built  of  a  costly  wood. 

Bearing  the  strange  perfume 
( )f  the  gorgeous  solitude, 

Where  it  grew  in  tropical  gloom  ; 
And  the  odorous  scent,  the  spicy  balm 

Of  its  isle  it  will  bear  to  me, 
As  I  stand  on  the  shore,  in  the  magic  calm. 

And  my  ship  comes  in  from  sea. 

It  is  laden  with  all  that  is  sweet 

Of  the  beauty  of  every  clime ; 
Slowly  and  proudly  'twill  glide  to  my  feet 

In  the  eve  of  that  fair  "  Sometime," 


SOMETIME. 

Before  me  its  sails  will  be  furled, 

A  princess  I  shall  be, 
Crowned  with  the  wealth  of  the  world, 

When  my  ship  comes  in  from  sea. 

Sweet  faces  I  then  shall  see, 

Tender,  undoubting,  true, 
Soft  hands  will  be  stretched  to  me 

With  a  welcome  I  never  knew  ; 
In  the  peace  of  such  tenderness 

I  shall  rest  forevermore, 
And  weep  in  my  perfect  bliss, 

As  I  never  wept  before. 

Sometimes  I  think  it  is  not  far 

And  I  bend  my  head  and  list, 
For  I  think  I  see  a  slender  spar 

Gleam  through  the  golden  mist ; 
And  I  fancy  I  hear  the  sound 

Of  wind  in  a  silken  sail, 
And  an  odor  rare  from  Eastern  ground, 

Floats  in  on  the  languid  gale. 

But  I  sit  and  watch  the  west 
Till  the  sun  goes  down,  in  vain  ; 

It  was  only  a  cloud  with  an  ivory  crest, 
A  cloud  of  vapor  and  rain  ; 


SOMETIME.  91 


It  rises  and  hides  the  sea, 

And  my  heart  grows  chill  and  numb, 
Lest  this  terrible  thing  should  be. 

That  my  ship  will  never  come. 

But  the  morn  is  bright — the  wave 

Is  a  golden  and  shining  track, 
Softly  the  waters  the  white  sands  lave, 

And  my  trusting  faith  comes  back  ; 
Oh,  all  that  I  ever  lost, 

And  all  that  I  long  to  be, 
Will  be  mine  when  the  deep  is   crossed, 

And  my  ship  comes  home  from  sea. 


MOTIVES. 

I  SAID  that  I  would  see 

Her  once,  to  curse  her  fair,  deceitful  grace. 
To  curse  her  for  my  life-long  agony ; 

But  when  I  saw  her  face, 
I  said,  "  Sweet  Christ,  forgive  both  her  and  me." 

High  swelled  the  chanted  hymn, 

Low  on  the  marble  swept  the  velvet  pall, 
I  bent  above  her,  and  my  eyes  grew  dim, 

My  sad  heart  saw  it  all- 
She  loved  me,  loved  me  though  she  wedded  him. 

And  then  shot  through  my  soul 

A  thrill  of  fierce  delight,  to  think  that  he 

Must  yield  her  form,  his  all,  to  Death's  control, 
The  while  her  love  for  me 

Would  live,  when  sun  and  stars  had  ceased  to  roll. 

But  no,  on  the  white  brow, 

Graved  in  its  marble,  was  deep  calm  impressed, 
Saying  that  peace  had  come  to  her  through  woe ; 

Saying,  she  had  found  rest 
At  last,  and  I,  I  must  not  love  her  now. 


MOTIVES.  9» 

It  may  be  in  Heaven's  grace, 

Beneath  the  shade  of  some  immortal  palm, 
That  God  will  let  me  see  her  angel  face  ; 

Then  wild,  wild  heart  be  calm, 
"Wipe  out  that  old  love,  every  sorrowful  trace. 

I  know  that  if  it  be, 

We  two  should  meet  again  in  Paradise, 
'T would  trouble  her  pure  soul  if  she  should  see 

The  old  grief  in  my  eyes  ; 
'T would  grieve  her  dear  heart  through  eternity. 

Wipe  out  that  grief,  my  soul, 

And  shall  I  lose  all  love,  in  losing  this  ? 

Unclasp  my  spirit,  self's  close  stolid  stole. 
Are  there  no  lives  to  bless  ? 

So  will  I  give  my  love,  my  life,  no  stinted  dole. 

God  will  note  deeds  and  sighs, 

Throned  in  far  splendor  on  the  heavenly  hill, 
Though  mad  sounds  from  this  wretched  planet  rise — 

Moans  wild  enough  to  fill 
Heaven's  air,  and  drown  its  harps  in  doleful  cries. 

And  angels  shall  look  down, 

Through  incense  rising  from  my  godly  deeds. 
Approving  gleam  those  eyes  of  tender  brown ; 

Sure  on  a  brow  that  bleeds, 
The  thorns  should  change  to  a  more  glorious  crown. 


MOTIVES. 

Well  done,  my  soul,  well  done, 

Out  of  thy  grief  to  rear  a  ladder  tall 

To  reach  the  land  that  lies  beyond  the  sun, 
To  scale  the  jasper  wall, 

And  rise  to  glory  on  griefs  stepping-stone. 

God  looks  into  the  tide, 

Angel  and  demon  troubled,  of  a  man's  mind  ; 
And  if  my  alms  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 

Only  my  love  to  lind, 
Only  to  pave  a  path  to  reach  her  side — 

Will  He  accept  from  me 

My  worship,  gifts — the  heavens  are  very  still, 
No  answer  do  I  hear,  no  sign  I  see, 

If  I  but  knew  His  will ; 
Would  He  would  come  a-walking  on  the  sea. 


The  storm  is  overpast,  for  sweet  and  fair 
A  sudden  radiance  shone  o'er  wave  and  lea 

And  in  the  glory  trembling  through  the  air, 
He  came  unto  me  walking  on  the  sea. 

The  heavy  waves  that  had  rushed  to  and  fro 
Cowered  at  His  feet  in  sudden  melody  ; 

And  all  transfigured  in  the  shining  glow 
Did  He  come  to  me  walking  on  the  sea. 


MOTIVES.  05 

Far  off  I  saw  His  form,  but  knew  it  not  ; 

He  nearer  drew,  He  smiled,  my  fears  did  nee  ; 
His  loving  look  dispelled  a  lingering  doubt, 

As  He  came  to  me  o'er  the  twilight  sea. 

I  dropped  my  burden  on  the  shelving  sand 
So  I  might  meet  Him,  if  such  bliss  could  be, 

I  reached  the  shore,  I  knelt  and  kissed  His  hand 
With  blissful  tears  beside  the  twilight  sea. 

Such  love  He  woke,  I  would  my  life  have  lain 
Low  down  to  pave  His  way,  "  He  loveth  me 

Who  loveth  this  sad  world,  and  blesseth  man,- ' 
Came  blown  to  me  across  the  twilight  sea. 

Perplexing  questions  died  within  my  breast, 
"  Deep  peace  hath  he  who  doeth  lovingly 

My  will,  who  loveth  most,  he  loveth  best," 
Came  blown  to  me  across  the  twilight  sea. 

The  storm  was  overpast,  a  breath  of  balm 

Lapped  the  low  waves,  and  lingered  on  the  lea, 

For  in  the  twilight  fell  a  holy  calm, 
He  came  unto  me  walking  on  the  sea. 

Was  this  a  dream?     If  it  were  not  a  dream 

My  life  is  blest  in  truth,  and  if  it  be, 
I  know  across  the  deep  has  fallen  a  gleam, 

A  bridge  of  glory  spans  the  twilight  sea. 


NIGHTFALL. 

SOFT  o'er  the  meadow,  and  murmuring  mere, 
Falleth  ti  shadow,  near  and  more  near  ; 
Day  like  a  white  dove  floats  down  the  sky, 
Cometh  the  night,  love,  darkness  is  nigli; 
So  dies  the  happiest  day. 

Slow  in  thy  dark  eye  riseth  a  tear, 
Hear  I  thy  sad  sigh,  Sorrow  is  near  ; 
Hope  smiling  bright,  love,  dies  on  my  breast, 
As  day  like  a  white  dove  flies  down  the  west ; 
So  dies  the  happiest  day. 


HIS   PLACE. 

So  all  tilings  come  to  our  mind  at  last, 

He  is  close  by  your  side  in  the  twilight  gloom. 
And  you  two  are  alone  in  the  dim  old  room, 

Yet  lie  is  mute,  as  you  hade  him  he,  time  past. 

You  hade  him  to  weary  you,  never  again 
With  his  idle  love,  in  truth  lie  was  wise> 
For  he  spake  no  more,  although  in  his  eyes 

You  read,  you  fancied,  a  language  of  pain. 

Hut  this  is  past,  and  vex  you  he  never  will, 
With  loving  glance,  or  look  of  sad  reproach  ; 
His  lips  move  not,  smile  not  at  your  approach  ; 

The  flowers  he  clasps  are  not  more  calm  and  still. 

Your  favorite  flowers  he  has  heard  you  praise, 
Purple  pansies,  and  lilies  creamy  white ; 
But  he  offers  them  not  to  you  to-night, 

He  troubles  you  not,  he  has  learned  "  his  place." 

You  wished  to  teach  him  that  lesson,  you  told 
Him  as  much,  you  know,  in  this  very  room, 
'Twas  about  this  hour,  for  the  twilight  gloom 

As  now,  was  enwrapping  you,  fold  on  fold. 


OS  JUS  PLACE. 

AVus  "  his  place"  in  the  haunts  of  the  herded  poor, 
Where  the  pestilence  stalked  with  deadly  breath  '. 
Face  to  face  with  its  dreadful  shadow,  death, 

1 1  <  >w  he  wrestled  with  it  from  door  to  door, 

Giving  his  life  that  others  life  might  find, 
Shaming  you  with  his  toil,  his  bravery, 
Not  by  a  word  or  look,  no  boaster  he, 

lie  was  always  gentle  to  you,  and  kind. 

lie  has  found  "  his  place,"  but  no  need  of  fears, 
No ;  you  need  not  summon  your  jealous  pride, 
For  "  his  place"  will  never  he  by  your  side, 

Nevermore,  nevermore,  through  all  the  years. 

And  when  from  Time  shall  drop  Earth's  days 
Like  chaff  from  the  bloom  of  the  year  sublime, 
AVith  the  gentle  spirits  of  every  time, 

And  the  martyr  souls,  he  will  find  his  place. 

So  answers  will  come  to  our  seeking  wills, 
Nevermore  will  his  sad  face  vex  your  sight. 
For  you  never  will  make  your  robes  so  white 

As  to  stand  by  him  on  the  heavenly  hills. 

Yes,  lay  your  cheek  upon  his,  and  press 

The  clustering  hair  from  his  broad  white  brow. 
Have  no  fear,  he  will  not  annoy  you  now 

By  a  word  in  praise  of  your  loveliness. 


HIS  PLACE.  99 

Yes,  kneel  by  him,  moaning,  kissing  his  brow, 

Not  now  will  it  grieve  him,  your  tears'  swift  rain, 
And  he  will  not  ask  you  to  share  your  pain ; 

Ah  !  Once  he  would,  but  not  now — not  now. 

So  leave  the  old  room  in  the  waning  light, 
Go  out  in  your  peerless  beauty  and  pride, 
And  let  no  shadow  go  out  by  your  side 

To  follow  you  under  the  falling  night. 


A   DREAM   OF   SPRING. 

THE  world  is  asleep  !    All  hushed  is  Nature's  warm,   sweet 

breath. 
The  world   is  asleep,  and  dreaming  the  silent  dream  of 

snow, 

But  through  the  silence  that  seems  like  the  silence  of  death. 
Under  their  shroud  of  ermine,  the  souls  of  the  roses  glow. 

And  forever  the  heart  of  the  water  throbs  and  beats, 

Though  bound  by  a  million  gleaming  fetters  and  crystal 

rings, 

No  sound  on  lonesome  mornings  the  lonely  watcher  greets, 
But  the  frosty  pane  is  impressed  with  the  shadow  of  com 
ing  wTings. 


WAITING. 

I  KNOW  not  where  you  wait  for  me  in  all  your  maiden 
sweetness, 

Sweet  soul  in  whom  my  life  will  find  its  rest,  its  full  com 
pleteness  ; 

But  somewhere  you  await  me,  Fate  will  lead  us  to  each 
other, 

As  roses  know  the  sunlight,  so  shall  we  know  one  an 
other. 

Dear  heart,  what  are  you  doing  in  this  twilight's  purple 

splendor, 
Do   you  tend  your  dewy   flowers   with   fingers  white  and 

slender, 

Heavy,  odor-laden  branches  in  blessing  bent  above  you, 
Fond  lilies  kneeling  at  your  feet,  winds  murmuring  they 

love  you  ? 

Mayhap,  your  heart  in  maiden  peace  is  like  a  closed  bud 
sleeping, 

Wrapped  in  pure  folds  of  saintly  thought,  its  tender  fresh 
ness  keeping. 


102  WAITING. 

Yet  like  a  dream  that  comes  in  sleep,  your  soul    sweet  quiet 

breaking, 
Is  a  thought  of  me,  my  darling,  that  shall  come  true  on 

waking. 

Perchance  you  turn  from  passionate  vows,  words  wild  with 
love's  sweet  madness, 

With  soft  eyes  looking  far  away,  in  yearning  trust  and  sad 
ness  ; 

A  look  that  tells  his  alien  soul  how  widely  you  are  parted, 

Though  he  knows  not  whom  your  rapt  eyes  seek,  my  sweet, 
my  loving-hearted. 

Oh,  the  world  is  rough  ;  the  heart  against  its  sneers,  its  cold 
derision, 

Locks  all  its  better  feelings,  making  it  a  gloomy  prison  ; 

But  your  hand,  my  angel,  shall  unlock  its  rocky,  dust-strewn 
portal, 

Your  smile  shall  rouse  its  dying  dreams  of  good  to  life  im 
mortal. 

You  will  make  me  better,  purer,  for  love,  the  true  refiner, 
Burning  out  the  baser  passions,  will  kindle  the  diviner, 
Will  plead  and  win  my  spirit,  not  to  shame  its  heavenly 

station, 
You  will  trust  me,  and  that  trust  will  prove  my  tempted 

soul's  salvation. 


WAITING.  103 

God  keep  you  tenderly,  my  life's  dear  hope  and  unseen 
blessing ; 

Oil,  night  wind,  touch  her  tresses  till  I  come  with  fond 
caressing, 

Thy  crown  of  pearl-linked  light,  oh,  royal  moon  stoop  down 
and  give  her, 

Till  queen  of  love's  own  kingdom,  I  crown  her  mine  for 
ever. 


A  SONG  FOR  TWILIGHT. 

OH  !  the  day  was  dark  and  dreary, 

For  clouds  swept  o'er  the  sun, 
The  burden  of  life  seemed  heavy, 

And  its  warfare  never  done ; 
But  I  heard  a  voice  at  twilight, 

It  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"  Oh,  doubting  heart,  look  upward, 

Dear  soul,  be  of  good  cheer. 
Oh,  weary  heart,  look  upward, 

Dear  soul,  be  of  good  cheer." 

And  lo !  on  looking  upward 

The  stars  lit  up  the  sky 
Like  the  lights  of  an  endless  city, 

A  city  set  on  high. 
And  my  heart  forgot  its  sorrow 

These  heavenly  homes  to  see — 
Sure  in  those  many  mansions 

Is  room  for  even  me, 
Sure  in  those  many  mansions, 

Is  room  for  thee  and  me. 


THE  FLIGHT. 

HERE  in  the  silent  doorway  let  me  linger 

One  moment,  for  the  porcli  is  still  and  lonely  ; 
That  shadow's  but  the  rose  vine  in  the  moonlight ; 

All  are  asleep  in  peace,  I  waken  only, 
And  lie  I  wait,  by  my  own  heart's  beating 

I  know  how  slow  to  him  the  tide  creeps  by, 
Nor  life,  nor  death,  could  bar  our  hearts  from  meeting ; 

AVere  worlds  between,  his  soul  to  mine  would  fly. 

Oh,  shame !  to  think  a  heap  of  paltry  metal 

Should  overbalance  manhood's  noblest  graces  ; 
A  film  of  gold  had  gilt  his  worth  and  honor, 

Warming  to  smiles  the  coldness  of  their  faces ; 
Gentle  to  me,  they  rise  in  condemnation, 

And  plead  with  me  than  words  more  powerfully. 
Oli !  well  I  love  them — but  they  have  wealth  and  station 

To  fill  their  hearts,  and  he  has  only  me. 

But  oh,  my  roses,  how  their  great  pure  faces 

Beseech  me  as  they  bend  from  sculptured  column. 

So  with  my  wet  cheek  closely  pressed  against  them, 
I  listen  to  their  pleadings  sweet  and  solemn. 


106  THE  FLIGHT. 

Oh,  Memory,  if  an  lionr  of  gloom  and  grieving 
I  here  have  known,  that  hour  before  me  set ; 

But  all  the  peace  and  joy  I  am  leaving. 
In  mercy,  Memory,  let  me  forget. 

Oh,  home  !  if  here  a  frown  has  ever  chilled  me, 

Let  it  now  rise  and  darken  on  my  sight. 
If  a  harsh  word  or  look  has  ever  grieved  me, 

Let  me  remember  that  harsh  word  to-night. 
But  all  the  tender  words,  the  fond  caressing, 

The  loving  smiles  that  daily  I  have  met, 
The  patient  mother  love,  God's  crowning  blessing, 

In  mercy,  Memory,  let  me  forget. 

Here  she  has  kissed  me  with  fond  looks  of  greeting ; 

Will  that  smile  fade  when  waiting  me  no  longer '. 
Oh,  true  first  love,  tender  and  changing  never  ; 

But  there's  a  love  that  nearer  is  and  stronger — 
He  comes !  I  kneel  and  kiss  the  stone,  oh,  mother, 

AVhere  you  have  stood  and  blessed  me  with  your  eyes  ; 
Forgive — forgive  me,  mother — father — brother — 

For  oh,  he  loves  me — and  love  sanctifies. 


COMFOET. 

ONCE  through  an  autumn  wood 
*  I  roamed  in  tearful  mood, 

By  grief  dismayed,  doubting,  and  ill  at  ease ; 
When  from  a  leafless  oak, 
Methought  low  murmurs  broke, 

Complaining  accents,  as  of  words  like  these  : 

"  Incline  thy  mighty  ear 

Great  Mother  Earth,  and  hear 
How  I,  thy  child,  am  sorely  vexed  and  tossed  ; 

No  one  to  heed  my  moan, 

I  shudder  here,  alone 
With  my  destroyers,  wind  and  snow,  and  frost. 

Then  low  and  unaware 

This  answer  cleaved  the  air, 
This  tender  answer,  "  Doubting  one  be  still ; 

Oh  trust  to  me,  and  know 

The  wind,  the  frost,  the  snow, 
Are  but  my  servants  sent  to  do  my  will. 

"  For  the  destroyer  frost, 
His  labor  is  not  lost, 


COMFORT. 

Rid  thee  he  shall  of  many  noisome  things  ; 

And  thou  shalt  praise  the  snow 

When  drinking  far  below 
Refreshment  sweet  from  overflowing  springs. 

ki  My  child  thoiv  rt  not  alone, 

I  love  thee,  hear  thy  moan. 
But  winds  that  fret  thee  only  causeth  thee 

To  more  securely  stand, 

More  firmly  clasp  my  hand, 
And  soaring  upward,  closer  cling  to  me." 

Then  from  my  burdened  heart 

The  shadows  did  depart, 
Then  said  I  softly — "  winds  of  sorrow  blow 

So  I  but  closer  cling 

To  thee,  my  Lord,  my  King, 
Who  loves  me,  even  me,  so  weak  arid  low." 


JENNY  ALLEN. 

I  NEVER  shall  hear  your  voice  again, 

Your  voice  so  gentle  and  low  ; 
But  the  thought  of  you,  Jenny  Allen, 

Will  go  with  me  where  I  go. 
Your  sweet  voice  drowns  the  Atlantic  wave 

And  the  rush  of  the  Alpine  snow. 

You  were  very  fair,  Jenny  Allen, 

Fair  as  a  woodland  rose  ; 
Your  heart  was  pure  as  an  angel's  heart, 

Too  good  for  earth  and  its  woes, 
And  I  loved  you,  Jenny  Allen, 

With  a  sorrowful  love,  God  knows. 

You  loved  me,  Jenny  Allen, 

My  sorrow  made  me  wise  ; 
And  I  read  your  heart,  'twas  an  easy  task, 

For  within  your  clear  blue  eyes, 
Your  pure  and  innocent  thoughts  shone  out 

Like  stars  from  the  summer  skies. 

He  had  riches  and  fame  with  his  seventy  years 
When  he  won  you  for  his  wife  ; 


110  JENNY  ALLEN. 

You  were  but  a  child,  and  poor,  and  tired, 

Tired  of  toil  and  strife  ; 
And  yon  only  thought  of  rest,  poor  dove, 

When  you  sold  your  beautiful  life. 

Alas,  for  the  hour  I  entered  in 

Your  halls  of  lordly  mirth  ; 
For  I  lost  there,  Jenny  Allen, 

All  that  gives  life  worth ; 
You  taught  your  teacher,  Jenny, 

The  saddest  lesson  of  earth. 

Ah,  woe's  the  hour  I  ever  stepped 

Your  mansion  walls  within  ; 
For  you  loved  me,  Jenny  Allen, 

But  you  never  dreamed  'twas  sin  ; 
Your  heart  wras  white  as  a  lily's  heart, 

When  it  drinks  the  sunshine  in. 

God  pity  me,  Jenny  Allen, 

That  I  ever  loved  you  so, 
I  would  have  died  to  give  you  peace, 

And  I  only  gave  you  woe  ; 
For  your  eyes  looked  like  a  wounded  dove's, 

When  I  told  you  I  must  go. 

You  were  but  a  child,  Jenny  Allen, 
But  that  hour  made  you  wise  ; 


JENNY  ALLEN.  Ill 

A  woman's  grief  and  holy  strength 

Sprang  up  in  your  mournful  eyes ; 
Ah,  you  were  an  angel,  Jenny, 

An  angel  in  woman's  guise. 

But  a  pitiful,  pitiful  look,  Jenny, 

Your  seraph  features  wore, 
As  I  left  you  that  dark  autumn  morn, 

Left  you  forevermore  ; 
And  heaven  seemed  shut  against  me 

As  I  blindly  shut  that  door. 

The  years  have  rained  on  you  golden  gifts, 

You  dwell  in  a  queenly  show  ; 
There  are  jewels  of  price  in  your  silken  hair, 

And  upon  your  neck  of  snow. 
Do  you  ever  think  of  me,  Jenny, 

And  the  dream  of  the  long  ago  ? 

I  have  sat  me  down  under  foreign  skies 

Afire  with  an  Orient  glow  ; 
I  have  seen  the  moon  gild  the  desert  sand, 

And  silver  the  Arctic  snow, 
But  the  thought  of  you,  Jenny  Allen, 

Goes  with  me  where  I  20. 


THE   UNSEEN  CITY. 

NOT  far  away  does  that  bright  city  stand, 
.     'Tis  but  the  mist  o'er  its  dividing  stream, 
That  wraps  the  glory  of  its  glitt'ring  strand, 

Its  radiant  skies,  and  mountains  silvery  gleam  ; 
Oil,  often  in  the  blindness  of  our  fate 
We  wander  very  near  the  city's  gate. 

We  love  that  unseen  city,  and  we  yearn 

Ever  within  our  earthly  homes  to  see 
Its  golden  towers,  that  in  the  sunset  burn, 

Its  white  walls  rising  from  the  quiet  sea ; 
Its  mansions  gleaming  with  immortal  glow, 
Filled  with  the  treasure  lost  to  us  below. 

Yes,  dear  ones  that  we  loved  and  lost  are  there  ; 

Bright  in  that  fair  clime  beam  those  sweet  eyes  now ; 
Fanned  by  its  soft  breeze  floats  the  shining  hair, 

Hair  we  have  smoothed  back  from  the  gentlest  brow  ; 
Softest  white  hands  we  kissed  and  clasped  in  ours 
Slipped  from  our  grasp,  lured  by  its  glowing  flowers. 

Fairer  it  seems,  its  velvet  walks  were  sweet, 
Dearer  its  quiet  streets,  with  gold  paved  o'er, 


THE   UNSEEN  CITY.  113 

Since  o'er  them  lightly  fall  the  little  feet — 

The  light  feet  bounding  through  our  homes  no  more  ; 
Oh,  heart's  dear  music,  tearfully  missed, 
That  city's  filled  with  melody  like  this. 

It  is  not  far  away ;  down  from  its  arches  roll 

Anthems  too  sacred  for  the  outward  ear, 
Pouring  their  haunting  sweetness  on  the  soul ; 

( )h,  how  our  waiting  spirits  thrill  to  hear, 
In  listening  to  the  low  bewildering  strain, 
Voices  they  said  we  should  not  hear  again. 

Oh,  dear  to  us  that  city.     He  is  there, 

He  whom  unseen  we  love  ;  no  need  of  light ; 

His  tender  eyes  illume  the  crystal  air 

Where  His  beloved  walk  in  vesture  white, 

What  though  on  earth  they  wandered,  poor,  distressed, 

And  saw  through  tears  His  glory,  now  they  rest. 

Oh,  that  fair  city,  shining  o'er  the  tide, 

Thither  we  journey  through  the  storm  and  night ; 

But  soon  shall  we  adown  its  still  bay  glide, 
Soon  will  the  city's  gate  gleam  on  our  sight, 

There  with  our  own  forever  shall  we  be, 

In  that  fair  city  rising  from  the  sea. 


THE  WAGES   OF    SIK 

I  AM  tin  outcast,  sinful  and  vile  I  know, 

But  what  arc  you,  my  lady,  so  fair,  and  proud,  and  high  'i 
The  fringe  of  your  robe  just  touched  me,  me  so  low— 

Your  feet  defiled,  I  saw  the  scorn  in  your  eye, 
And  the  jeweled  hand,  that  drew  back  your  garments  fine. 

What  should  you  say  if  I  told  you  to  your  face 
Your  robes  are  dyed  with  as  deep  a  stain  as  mine, 

The  only  difference  is  you  are  better  paid  for  disgrace. 

You  loved  a  man,  you  promised  to  be  his  bride, 

Strong  vows  you  gave,  you  were  in  the  sight  of  Heaven 

his  wife, 
And  when  you  sold  yourself  for  another's  wealth,  he  died  ; 

And  what  is  that  but  murder?     To  take  a  life 
That  is  a  little  beyond  my  guilt,  I  ween, 

To  murder  the  one  you  love  is  a  crime  of  deeper  grade 
Than  mine,  yet  in  purple  you  walk  on  the  earth  a  queen  ; 

I  think  the  wages  of  sin  are  very  unequally  paid. 

For  what  did  you  receive  when  you  sold  yourself  for  his  gold. 
When  with  guilty  loathing  you  plighted  your  white,  false 
hand, 


THE   WAGES  OF  SIN.  117 

A  palace  in  town  and  country,  his  name  long  centuries  old, 
A  carnage  with  coachmen  and  footmen,  wealth  in  broad 
tracts  of  land, 

Wealth  in  coffers  and  vaults,  high  station,  the  family  gems, 
For  these  you  stood  at  God's  altar  and  swore  to  a  lie ; 

But  smother  your  conscience  to  silence  if  it  condemns, 
With  this  you  are  liberally  paid  for  your  life  of  infamy. 

What  wages  did  I  receive  when  I  gave  myself  for  his  love, 

So  young,  so  weak,  and  loving  him,  loving  him  so — 
What  did  I  get  for  my  sin,  O  merciful  God  above  ! 

But  the  terrible,  terrible  wages — pain  and  want  and  woe ; 
The  world's  scorn,  and  my  own  contempt  and  disdain, 

The  hideous  hue  of  guilt  that  stares  in  every  eye. 
Like  you  I  cannot  'broider  with  gold  my  garments'  stain, 

You  see,  my  lady,  you  get  far  better  wages  than  I. 

In  your  constancy  to  sin  you  far  exceed  my  power, 

Since  that  day  marked  with  blackness  from  other  days— 
The  day  before  your  marriage — never  since  that  hour 

Have  I  heard  his  voice,  have  I  looked  upon  his  face ; 
For  I  threw  his  gold  at  his  feet  and  stole  away 

Anywhere — anywhere — only  out  of  his  sight, 
Longing  to  hide  from  the  mocking  glare  of  the  day, 

Longing  to  cover  my  eyes  forever  away  from  the  light. 

And  long  I  strove  to  hate  him,  for  I  thought 

I  was  so  young,  a  friendless  orphan  left  to  his  care, 


118  THE   WAGES  OF 

1 1  was  a  terrible  sin  that  lie  had  wrought, 
And  since  I  had  the  burden  of  guilt  to  bear 

It  was  enough  without  the  wild  despair  of  love, 
So  I  strove  to  reason  my  passionate  love  to  hate. 

Can  we  kneel  with  tears  and  bid  the  strong  sun  move 
Away  from  the  sky?     It  is  vain  to  war  with  fate. 

That  a  hard  life  I  have  lived  since  then,  'tis  true, 

My  hands  are  unblackened  by  sinful  wages  since  that  day, 
And  my  baby  died,  I  was  not  fit,  God  knew 

To  guide  a  sinless  soul,  so  He  took  my  bird  away ; 
And  my  heart  was  empty  and  lone  as  a  robin's  winter  nest, 

Without  the  trusting  eyes  that  never  looked  scornfully, 
The  head  that  nestled  fearlessly  on  my  guilty  breast, 

And  the  little  constant  hands  that  clung  to  me,  even  me. 

But  I  knew  it  were  best  for  God  to  unclasp  her  hand 

From  mine,  while  yet  she  clung  to  it  in  trust, 
Than  for  her  to  draw  it  from  me,  live  to  understand, 

Blush  for  her  mother — had  she  lived  she  must. 
And  then  she  had  her  father's  smile>  and  his  soft,  dark  eyes, 

Maybe  she  would  have  had  his  fair,  false  ways — his  heart. 
It  is  well  that  she  passed  through  the  starry  gate  of  the  skies 

Though  it  closed  and  bars  us  forever  and  ever  apart. 

For  I  am  a  sinful  woman,  well  I  know, 

And  though  by  others'  sins  my  own  are  not  excused, 


THE  WAGES  OF  SIN,  119 

Things  seem  so  strange  to  me  in  this  strange  world  of  woe. 
In  a  maze  of  doubt  and  wonder  I  get  confused  ; 

Whether  a  sin  of  impulse,  born  of  a  fatal  love, 

Is  worse  than  deliberate  bargain,  a  life  of  legal  shame. 

Legal  below,  I  think  in  the  courts  above 

The  heavenly  scribes  will  call  a  crime  by  its  right  name. 

But  we  stand  before  the  wise,  wise  judgment -seat 

Of  the  world,  and  it  calls  you  pure, 
That  in  your  pearl-gemmed  breast  all  saintly  virtues  meet. 

Holier  than  other  holy  women,  higher,  truer, 
So  sweet  a  creature,  an  angel  in  woman's  guise. 

They  would  not  wonder  much,  though  much  they  might 

admire, 
Should  you  be  caught  again  up  to  your  native  skies 

From  an  alien  world  in  a  chariot  of  fire. 

So  we  stand  before  the  tender  judgment-seat 

Of  the  world,  and  it  calls  me  vile, 
So  low  that  it  is  a  wonder  God  will  let 

His  joyous  sunshine  gild  my  guilty  head  with  its  smiles, 
An  outcast  barred  beyond  the  pale  of  hope, 

Beyond  the  lamp  of  their  mercy's  flickering  light. 
They  would  scarcely  wonder  if  the  earth  should  ope 

And  swallow  up  the  wretch  from  their  vexed  sight. 

Before  another  judgment-seat  one  day  we  will  stand 
You  and  I,  my  lady,  and  he  by  our  side, 


120  THE  WAGES  OF  SIN. 

He  who  won  my  heart,  who  held  my  life  in  his  hand, 
He  who  bought  you  with  gold  to  be  his  bride  ; 

IU>fore  an  assembled  world  we  shall  stand,  we  three, 

To  meet  from  the  merciful  Judge  our  doom  of  weal  or 
woe, 

lie  holds  His  righteous  balance  true  and  evenly, 
And  which  is  the  vilest  sinner  we  then  shall  know. 


ISABELLE  AND   I. 

ISABELLE  lias  gold,  and  lands, 

Fate  gave  her  a  fair  lot ; 
Like  the  white  lilies  of  the  field 

Her  soft  hands  toil  not. 
I  gaze  upon  her  splendor 

Without  an  envious  sigh ; 
I  have  no  wealth  in  lands  and  gold. 

And  yet  sweet  peace  have  I. 

I  know  the  blue  sky  smiles  as  bright 

On  the  low  field  violet, 
As  on  the  proud  crest  of  the  pine 

On  loftiest  mountain  set. 
I  am  content — God  loveth  all, 

And  if  He  tenderly 
The  sparrow  guides,  He  knoweth  best 

The  place  where  I  should  l>e. 

Her  violet  velvet  curtains  trail 

Down  to  the  marble  floor, 
But  brightly  God's  rich  sunshine  stream: 

Into  my  cottage  door  ; 


ISABELLE  AND  L 

And  not  a  picture  on  her  walls, 

Hath  beauty  unto  me, 
Like  that  which  from  my  window  frame 

I  daily  lean  to  see. 

She  has  known  such  pomp,  she  careth  not 

For  any  humble  sight ; 
Flowers  bending  o'er  the  brook's  green  edge, 

To  her  give  no  delight ; 
She  tends  her  costly -eastern  bird 

With  gold  upon  its  wing  ; 
But  her  wild  roses  bloom  for  me, 

For  mo  her  wild  birds  sing. 

She  tires  of  home,  and  fain  would  see 

The  brightest  climes  of  earth, 
And  so  she  sails  for  summer  lands 

With  friends  to  share  her  mirth  ; 
She  waves  her  jewelled  hand  to  me 

The  opal  spray-clouds  fly  ; 
She  leaves  me  with  the  fading  shore — 

Do  I  envy  her  ?  not  I. 

She  will  see  the  sailors'  hardened  palms 

Curbing  the  toiling  sails, 
She  will  faint  beneath  the  tropic  calms 

And  face  the  angry  gales. 


ISABELLE  AND  1. 

She  will  labor  for  her  happiness 
While  I've  no  need  to  speak, 

But  on  a  lotus  leaf  I  float, 
Unto  the  land  they  seek. 

There,  like  a  dream  from  out  the  wave, 

I  see  a  city  rise, 
I  stand  entranced,  as  by  a  spell, 

Upon  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
The  low  and  measured  dip  of  oars 

Falls  softly  on  my  ear 
Blent  with  the  tender  evening  song, 

Of  some  swart  gondolier. 

And  down  from  marble  terraces 

Veiled  ladies  slowly  pass, 
And,  entering  antique  barges, 

Glide  down  the  streets  of  glass  ; 
And  eyes  filled  with  the  dew  and  fire 

Of  their  own  midnight  sky, 
Gleam  full  on  me,  as  silently 

The  gondolas  float  by. 

The  sunset  burns,  and  turns  the  wave 

To  an  enchanted  stream, 
And  far  up  on  the  shadowy  steeps 

The  white  walled  convents  gleam, 


ISABELLE  AND  I. 

The  music  of  their  bells  float  out — 
The  sweet  wind  bears  it  by, 

Adown  the  warm  and  sunny  slopes,. 
Where  purple  vineyards  lie. 

And  I  stand  in  old  cathedrals, 

By  tombs  of  buried  kings, 
AVI  lite  angels  bend  above  them — 

Mute  guard  with  folded  wings. 
Far  down  the  aisle  the  organ  peals, 

The  priests  are  knelt  in  prayer 
And  memories  flood  its  ancient  walls, 

As  the  music  fills  the  air. 

I  may  not  see  that  blessed  land, 

But  she  roams  o'er  the  sod 
The  Lord's  pure  eyes  have  hallowed, 

Where  once  His  feet  have  trod. 
Yet  He  in  mercy  has  drawn  near, 

He  has  me  comforted — 
So  near  He  seemed  I  almost  felt 

His  hand  upon  my  head. 

And  I  with  slow  and  reverent  steps 
Through  ancient  cities  roam, 

Treading  o'er  crumbling  columns. 
The  dust  of  spire  and  dome  ; 


ISABELLE  AND  I.  125 


The  tall  and  shattered  arches 
Their  flickering  shadows  cast, 

Like  bent  and  hoary  spectres, 
Low  murmuring  of  the  past. 

And  Isabelle  toils  o'er  the  Alps, 

Through  fields  of  ice  and  snow, 
To  see  the  lofty  glaciers 

Flash  in  the  sun's  red  glow. 
I  feel  no  cold,  and  yet  on  high 

Their  shining  spires  I  see. 
Why  should  I  envy  Isabelle? 

Why  should  she  pity  me  ? 

Why  should  I  envy  Isabelle 

When  thus  so  easily. 
Upon  a  tropic  flower's  perfume 

I  float  across  the  sea? 


GOOD-BY, 

AGAIN  I  see  that  May  moon  shine, 

Dost  thou  remember,  soul  of  mine  ? 

I  held  jour  hand  in  mine,  you  know, 

And  as  I  bent  to  whisper  low, 

A  tender  light  was  in  your  eye, 

"  Sweetheart,  good-by,  sweetheart,  good-by." 

There  came  a  time  my  lips  were  white 
Beneath  the  pale  and  cold  moonlight, 
And  burning  words  I  might  not  speak, 
You  read,  love,  in  my  ashen  cheek, 
As  my  whole  heart  breathed  in  this  one  cry, 
"  Sweetheart,  good-by,  sweetheart,  good-by." 

Time's  wares  that  roll  so  swift  and  fleet 
Have  borne  you  far  from  me,  my  sweet, 
Have  borne  you  to  a  sunny  bay, 
Where  brightest  sunshine  gilds  your  way. 
Do  these  words  ever  dim  your  sky— 
Sweetheart,  good-by,  sweetheart,  good-by  ? 

I  cannot  tell,  but  this  I  know 
They  go  with  me  where'er  I  go, 


GOOD-BY.  127 

I  hear  them  in  the  crowded  mart, 
At  midnight  lone,  they  chill  my  heart — 
They  dim  for  me  the  earth  and  sky, 
Sweetheart,  good-by,  sweetheart,  good-by. 

And  in  that  hour  of  mystery, 

When  loved  ones  shall  bend  over  me, 

Near  ones  to  kiss  my  lips  and  weep, 

As  nearer  steals  the  dreamless  sleep, 

From  all  I'll  turn  with  this  last  sigh, 

'"  Sweetheart,  good-by,  sweetheart,  good-by." 


THE   SEA-CAPTAIN'S   WOOING. 

PUT  the  crown  of  your  love  on  my  forehead, 

Its  sweet  links  clasped  with  a  kiss, 
And  all  the  great  monarchs  of  England 

Never  wore  such  a  gem  as  this. 
Give  me  your  hand,  little  maiden, 

That  sceptre  so  pearly  white, 
And  I'll  envy  not  the  kingliest  wand 

That  ever  waved  in  might. 

I  know  'tis  like  asking  a  morning  cloud 

AVith  a  grim  old  mountain  to  stay, 
But  your  love  would  soften  its  ruggedness, 

And  melt  its  roughness  away. 
I  have  seen  a  delicate  rosy  cloud, 

A  rough,  gray  cliff  enfold, 
Till  his  heart  was  warmed  by  its  loveliness, 

And  his  brow  was  tinged  with  its  gold. 

Oh,  poor  and  mean  does  my  life  show 
Compared  with  the  beauty  of  thine, 

Like  a  diamond  embedded  in  granite 
Your  life  would  be  set  in  mine  ; 


THE  SEA-CAPTAIN'S   WOOING.  129 

But  a  faithful  love  should  guard  you, 

And  shelter  you  from  life's  storm, 
The  rock  must  be  shivered  to  atoms 

Ere  its  treasure  should  come  to  harm. 

How  your  sweet  face  has  shone  on  me 

From  the  tropics'  midnight  sea, 
When  the  sailors  slept,  and  I  kept  watch 

Alone  with  my  God  and  thee. 
I  know  your  heart  is  relenting, 

The  tender  look  in  your  eyes 
Seems  like  that  sky's  soft  splendor 

When  the  sun  was  beginning  to  rise. 

You  need  not  veil  their  glorious  light 

With  your  eyelids'  cloud  of  snow, 
A  tell-tale  bird  with  a  crimson  wing 

On  your  cheek  flies  to  and  fro  ; 
And  whispers  to  me  such  blissful  hope 

That  my  foolish  tears  will  start, 
All,  little  bird  !  your  fluttering  wing 

Is  folded  on  my  heart. 


IONE. 

I  MIGHT  strive  as  well  to  melt  to  softness  the  soulless  breast 

Of  some  fair  and  saintly  image,  carven  out  of  stone, 
"With  my  smile,  as  to  stir  your  heart  from  its  icy  rest, 

Or  win  a  tender  glance  from  your  royal  eyes,  lone ; 
But  your  sad  smile  lures  me  on,  as  toward  some  fatal  rock 

Is  the  fond  wave  drawn,  but   to  break  with   passionate 

moan. 
Break  !  to  be  spurned  from  its  cold  feet  with  a  stony  shock, 

As  you  would  spurn  my  suppliant  heart  from  your  feet, 
lone. 

lone,  there  is  a  grave  in  the  churchyard  under  the  hill, 

The  villagers  shun  like  the  unblest  haunt  of  a  ghost, 
Dropped  there  out  of  a  dark  spring  night,  I  remember  still, 

For  a  foreign  ship  had  anchored  that  night  on  the  coast ; 
On  the  gray  stone  tablet  is  written  this  one  word  "  Rest." 

Did  he  who  sleeps  underneath  seek  for  it  vainly  here  ? 
What  is  the  secret  hidden  there  in  the  buried  breast, 

The  secret  deeper  sunken  by  dripping  rains  each  year. 

"When  autumn's  bending  boughs  and  harvests  burdened  the 

ground 
An  early  laborer,  chancing  to  pass  that  way  alone, 


IONE.  131 

Saw  a  small  glove  gleaming  wliitely  upon  the  mound, 

And  into  the  delicate  wrist  was  woven  "  lone," 
And  he  said  as  he  dropped  it  again  his  eye  did  mark— 
For  this  unknown,  unhallowed  grave  had  been  shunned  by 

all- 
A  narrow  footpath  winding  through  to  the  lofty  wall, 

That  guards  the  wild  grandeur  and  gloom  of   your  fa 
ther's  park. 

'Tis  well  to  put  small  faith  in  a  simple  rustic's  eye, 

This  story  your  father  heard,  and  haughtily  denied. 
The  grass  waves  rankly  now,  and  gives  the  fellow  the  lie, 

How  many  secrets  the  tall,  deceitful  grasses  hide, 
Patting  the  turf  that  covers  a  maiden's  innocent  rest, 

And  creeping  and  winding  old  haunted  ruins  among, 
As  silently  smooth's  the  mould  above  the  murdered  breast, 

Smothering  down  to  deeper  silence  a  buried  wrong. 

In  your  father's  gallery  once,  I  saw  your  pictured  face, 

lone  you  were  not  always  so  sad  and  pale  as  this, 
N"o  beauty  in  all  the  long  line  of  your  noble  race 

Had  eyes   so   softly   bathed   in   bright   bewitchment   of 

bliss, 
You  were  just  nineteen,  they  said — it  was  painted  in  Spain 

The  year  before  you  came — it  was  on  your  foreign  tour, 
By  an  artist  too  low  to  be  reached  by  your  disdain, 

A  delicate,  passionate-hearted  boy,  proud  and  poor. 


132  IONE. 

So  said  the  rumors  floating  to  us  across  the  sea, 

You  had  only  an  invalid  mother  with  you  there, 
1  fancy  that  then  you  set  your  heart's  pure  feelings  free 

For  the  first  time,  far  from  your  proud  old  father's  care, 
For  you  used  to  wander  down  the  shaded  garden  ways. 

Your  slight  hand  closely  clasped  by  the  fair-haired  Eng 
lish  youth, 
His  blue  eyes  bent  on  your  blushing  face,  so  rumor  says. 

Though  such  light  birds  are  not  to  be  trusted  much  in 
truth. 

Your  face,  is  not  the  face  that  looked  from  the  antique  frame, 
lone,  and  even  that  is  gone  from  the  oaken  wall ; 

That  picture  that  never  was  painted  for  gold  or  fame, 

So  vowed  the  artist  friend  who  went  with  me  to  the  hall ; 

But  the  pain  on  your  white  brow  sits  regally  I  ween, 
.The  smile  on  your  perfect  lips  is  perilously  sweet, 

My  slavish  glances  crown  you  my  love,  my  fate,  my  queen, 
As  you  pass  in  peerless  beauty  adown  the  village  street. 


SUMMER  DAYS. 

LIKE  emerald  lakes  the  meadows  lie, 

And  daisies  dot  the  main  ; 
The  sunbeams  from  the  deep  blue  sky 

Drop  down  in  golden  rain, 
And  gild  the  lily's  silver  bell, 

And  coax  buds  apart, 
But  I  miss  the  sunshine  of  my  youth. 

The  summer  of  my  heart. 

The  wild  birds  sing  the  same  glad  song 

They  sang  in  days  of  yore  ; 
The  laughing  rivulet  glides  along, 

Low  whispering  to  the  shore, 
And  its  mystic  water  turns  to  gold 

The  sunbeam's  quivering  dart, 
But  I  miss  the  sunshine  of  my  youth, 

The  summer  of  my  heart. 

The  south  wind  murmurs  tenderly 

To  the  complaining  leaves ; 
The  Flower  Queen  gorgeous  tapestry 
Of  rose  and  purple  wreaves. 


134  SUMMER  DATS. 

Yes,  Nature's  smile,  the  weary  while, 
Wears  all  its  olden  truth, 

But  I  miss  the  sunshine  of  my  heart, 
The  summer  of  my  youth. 


THE   LADY   CECILS. 

SITTING  alone  in  the  windy  tower, 

While  the  waves  leap  high,  or  are  low  at  rest, 

What  does  she  think  of,  hour  by  hour, 

With  her  strange  eyes  bent  on  the  distant  west, 
And  a  fresh  white  rose  on  her  withered  breast, 

What  does  she  think  of,  hour  by  hour  ? 

The  Lady  Cecile. 

Low  under  the  lattice,  day  by  day, 

AVhite  homeward  sails  like  swallows  come, 

But  the  sad  eyes  look  afar  and  away, 
And  the  sailors'  songs  as  they  near  their  home, 
No  glance  may  win,  for  she  sitteth  dumb, 

With  her  sad  eyes  looking  afar  and  away, 

The  Lady  Cecile. 

Just  forty  years  has  she  dwelt  alone 

With  an  ancient  servant,  grim  and  gray, 

Sat  alone  under  sun  and  moon  ; 

But  once  each  year,  on  the  third  of  June, 
She  treads  the  creaking  staircase  down, 

But  back  in  her  tower  with  the  dying  day, 

Is  the  Ladv  Cecile. 


13G  THE  LADY  CECILE. 

I  iciicath  the  tower  of  the  lonesome  hall. 
Stone  stairs  creep  down  where  the  slow  tide  flows, 

There,  out  of  a  niche  in  the  mouldering  wall, 
Low  leaneth  a  royal  tropical  rose  : 
Who  set  it  there  none  cares,  nor  knows. 

Long  years  ago  in  the  mouldering  wall, 

But  the  Lady  Oecile. 

"But  each  third  of  June  as  the  sun  dips  low. 
She  descends  the  stairs  to  the  water's  verge, 

And  plucks  a  rose  from  the  lowest  bough 
Which  the  lapping  waves  almost  submerge, 
And  what  forms  out  of  the  deep,  resurge 

T<>  vex  her,  maybe,  with  mournful  brow, 

Knows  the  Lady  Cecile. 

Her  locks  are  sown  with  silver  hairs. 
And  the  face  they  shroud  is  pale  and  wan  ; 

Once  it  was  sweet  as  the  rose  she  wears, 

Though  the  perfect  lips  wore  a  proud  disdain  ! 
But  the  rose-face  paled  by  time  and  pain, 

Xo  new  springs  know,  like  the  flower  she  wears, 

The  Lady  Cecile. 

Why  does  she  set  the  fresh  white  rose 
So  faithfully  over  her  silent  breast? 
And  what  her  thoughts  are  nobody  knows, 


THE  LADY  CECILE.  137 

She  sits  with  her  secret  hid,  unguessed, 
With  her  strange  eyes  bent  on  the  distant  west, 
So  the  slow  years  come,  and  the  slow  year  goes, 

O'er  the  Lady  Cecile. 

Forty  years!  and  June  the  third 

Came  with  a  storm — loud  the  winds  did  blow — 
And  up  in  her  tower  the  lady  heard 

The  dee])  waves  calling  her  ftir  below  ; 

Wild  they  leaped  and  surged,  wild  the  winds  did  blow, 
And,  listening  alone,  she  thought  she  heard 

"Cecile!  Cecile  !v 

And,  wrapping  her  cloak  round  her  withered  form, 
She  crept  down  the  stairs  of  crumbling  stone  ; 

Higher  and  fiercer  raged  the  storm 

As  she  bent  and  plucked  the  rose — but  one 

Had  the  tempest  spared — and  the  winds  did  moan. 

And  she  thought  that  she  heard  o'er  the  voice  of  the  storm, 

"Cecile!  Cecile!" 

She  placed  the  rose  on  her  bloodless  breast, 
And  dizzy  and  faint  she  reached  the  tower, 

And  her  strange  eyes  looked  out  again  on  the  west, 
And  a  wave  dashed  up,  as  she  looked  from  the  tower. 
Like  a  hand,  and  lifted  the  roots  of  the  flower. 

And  swept  it — carried  it  out  to  the  west, 

From  the  Lady  Cecile. 


138  THE  LADY  CECILS. 

And  like  death  was  her  face,  when  suddenly. 
Strangely — a  tremulous  golden  gleam 

Pierced  the  pile  of  clouds,  high-massed  and  gray, 
And  the  shining,  quivering,  golden  beam 
Seemed  a  bridge  of  light — a  gold  highway 

Thrown  o'er  the  wild  waves  of  the  bay  ; 

And  the  Lady  Cecile 

Did  eagerly  out  of  her  lattice  lean 

With  her  glad  eyes  bent  on  that  bridge  gold-bright, 

As  if  some  form  by  her  rapt  eyes  seen, 

AVere  beckoning  her  down  that  path  of  light, 
That  quivering,  shining,  led  from  sight, 

Ending  afar  in  the  sunset  sheen. 

And  the  Lady  Cecile 

Tried  with  her  lips  that  erst  were  dumb 

"  See  !  am  I  not  true  ?  your  flower  I  wore," 

And  her  thin  hand  eagerly  touched  the  flower, 
"  He  is  smiling  upon  me !  yes,  love,  I  come." 
And  a  pleasant  light,  like  the  light  of  home, 

Lit  her  eyes,  and  life  and  pain  were  o'er 

To  the  Lady  Cecile. 


HOME. 

A  SPIRIT  is  out  to-niglit ! 

His  steeds  are  the  winds  ;  oh,  list, 
How  lie  madly  sweeps  o'er  the  clouds, 

And  scatters  the  driving  mist. 

We  will  let  the  curtains  fall 

Between  us  and  the  storm  ; 
Wheel  the  sofa  up  to  the  hearth. 

Where  the  fire  is  glowing  warm. 

Little  student,  leave  your  book, 

And  come  and  sit  by  my  side  ; 
If  you  dote  on  Tennyson  so, 

I'll  be  jealous  of  him,  my  bride. 

There,  now  I  can  call  you  my  own ! 

Let  me  push  back  the  curls  from  your  brow, 
And  look  in  your  dark  eyes  and  see 

What  rny  bird  is  thinking  of  now. 

Is  she  thinking  of  some  high  perch 

Of  freedom,  and  lofty  flight  ? 
You  smile  ;  oh,  little  wild  bird, 

You  are  hopelessly  bound  to-night ! 


140  HOME. 

\  ou  arc  bound  with  a  golden  ring, 

An.l  your  captor,  like  some  grim  knight, 

A\rill  lock  you  up  in  the  deepest  cell 
Of  his  heart,  and  hide  you  from  sight. 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  do  you  hear  fur  away 
The  mournful  voice  of  the  sea  I 

It  is  telling  me  of  the  time 

"When  I  thought  y^ou  were  lost  to  me. 

Nay,  love,  do  not  look  so  sad ; 

It  is  over,  the  doubt  and  the  pain  ; 
Hark  !  sweet,  to  the  song  of  the  lire, 

And  the  whisper  of  the  rain. 


STEPS  WE  CLIMB. 


LIKE  idle  clouds  our  lives  move  on, 
By  change  and  chance  as  idly  blown  ; 
Our  hopes  like  netted  sparrows  fly, 
And  vainly  beat  their  wings  and  die. 
Fate  conquers  all  with  stony  will, 
Oli,  heart,  be  still— be  still  ! 


n. 


Ts  o  !  change  and  chance  are  slaves  that  wait 
On  Him  who  guides  the  clouds,  not  fate, 
But  the  High  King  rules  sea  and  sun, 
He  conquers,  He,  the  Mighty  One. 
So  powerless,  'neath  that  changeless  will, 
Oli,  heart,  be  still— be  still! 


in. 


As  a  young  bird  fallen  from  its  nest 
Beats  wildly  the  kind  hand  against 
That  lifts  it  up,  so  tremblingly 
Our  hearts  lie  in  God's  hand,  as  He 


STEPS  WE  CLIMB.. 

Uplifts  them  by  His  loving  will, 
Oh,  heart,  be  still — be  still ! 

IV. 

Uplifts  them  to  a  perfect  peace, 
A  rest  beyond  all  earthly  ease, 
'Neath  the  white  shadow  of  the  throne- 
Low  nest  forever  overshone 
By  tenderest  love,  our  Lord's  dear  will  ; 
Oh,  heart,  be  still— be  still ! 


SQUIRE  PERCY'S   PRIDE. 

THE  Squire  was  none  of  your  common  men 

Whose  ancestors  nobody  knows, 
But  visible  was  his  lineage 

In  the  lines  of  his  Roman  nose, 
That  turned  in  the  true  patrician  curve — 

In  the  curl  of  his  princely  lips. 
In  his  slightly  insolent  eyelids, 

In  his  pointed  finger-tips. 

Very  erect  and  grand  looked  the  Squire 

As  he  walked  o'er  his  broad  estate, 
For  he  felt  that  the  earth  was  honored 

In  bearing  his  honorable  weight ; 
Proudly  he  strolled  through  his  wooded  park 

Deer-haunted  and  gloomily  grand, 
Or  gazed  from  his  pillared  porticoes 

On  his  far-outlying  land. 

In  a  tiny  whitewashed  cottage, 

Half-covered  with  roses  wild, 
His  cheerful-faced  old  gardener  dwelt 

Alone  with  his  motherless  child  ; 


14G  SQUIRE  PERCY'S  PRIDE. 

The  Squire  owned  the  very  floor  he  trod. 

The  grass  in  his  garden  lot, 
The  poor  man  had  only  this  one  little  lamb 

Yet  he  envied  the  rich  man  not. 

Poor  was  the  gardener,  yet  rich  withal 

In  this  priceless  pearl  of  a  girl, 
So  perfect  a  form,  so  faultless  a  face 

Never  brightened  the  halls  of  an  Earl ; 
Her  eyes  were  two  fathomless  stars  of  light. 

And  they  shone  on  the  Squire  day  by  day, 
Till  their  warm  and  perilous  splendor 

So  melted  his  pride  away, 

That  lie  fain  would  have  taken  this  pretty  pet  lamb 

To  dwell  in  his  stately  fold. 
To  fetter  it  fast  with  a  jewreled  chain, 

And  cage  it  with  bars  of  gold  ; 
Hut  this  coy  little  lamb  loved  its  freedom, 

Xot  so  free  was  she,  though,  to  be  true, 
But,  oh,  the  dainty  and  shy  little  lamb 

Well  her  master's  voice  she  knew. 

Twas  vain  for  the  Squire  the  story  to  tell 

Of  his  riches  and  high  descent, 
As  it  fell  into  one  rosy  shell  of  an  ear 

Out  of  its  mate  it  went ; 


SQUIRE  PEROTS  PRIDE.  147 

How  one  grim  old  ancestor  into  the  land 

With  William  the  Conqueror  came, 
She  thought,  the  sweet,  of  a  conqueror 

She  knew  with  that  very  name. 

So  in  this  tender  conflict 

The  great  man  was  forced  to  yield 
To  the  handsome,  sunburnt  ploughman 

Who  sowed  and  reaped  in  his  field  ; 
For  vainly  he  poured  out  his  glittering  gifts, 

Vainly  he  plead  and  besought, 
Her  heart  was  a  tender  and  soft  little  heart, 

But  it  was  not  a  heart  to  be  bought. 

So  strange  a  thing  I  warrant  you 

Happens  not  every  day, 
That  the  pride  that  had  thriven  for  centuries 

One  slight  little  maiden  should  slay  ; 
Why  the  proud  Squire's  Roman  features 

Quivered  and  burned  with  shame, 
And  the  picture  of  his  grim  ancestor 

Blushed  in  its  antique  frame. 

Were  this  a  romance,  an  idle  tale, 

The  Squire  would  sicken  and  die, 
Slain  by  the  pitiless  cruelty, 

Of  her  dark  and  dazzling  eye ; 


148  SQUIRE  PERCY'S  PRIDE. 

And  she  in  some  shadowy  convent 

Would  bow  her  beautiful  head, 
But  the  hand  that  should  have  told  penitent  beads 

Wore  a  plain  gold  ring  instead. 

And  he,  not  twice  had  his  oak  trees  bloomed 

Ere  he  wedded  a  lady  grand, 
Whose  tall  and  towering  family  tree, 

Had  for  ages  darkened  the  land  ; 
'Twas  a  famous  genealogical  tree, 

With  no  modernly  thrifty  shoots, 
But  a  tree  with  a  sap  of  royalty 

Encrusting  its  mossy  old  roots. 

This  leaf  he  plucked  from  the  outmost  t wiir 

Was  somewhat  withered,  'tis  true, 
Long  years  had  flown  since  it  lightly  danced 

To  the  summer  air  and  the  dew ; 
Not  much  of  a  dowry  brought  she, 

In  beauty  or  vulgar  pelf, 
But  she  had  two  or  three  ancestors 

More  than  the  Squire  himself. 

'Twas  much  to  muse  o'er  their  musty  names. 
And  to  think  that  his  children's  brains 

Should  be  moved  by  the  sanguine  current, 
That  had  flown  through  such  ancient  veins; 


SQUIRE  PEROT'S  PRIDE.  149 

But  I  think,  sometimes,  in  his  secret  heart, 

The  Squire  breathed  woful  sighs 
For  the  fresh  sweet  face  of  the  little  maid, 

With  the  dark  and  wonderful  eyes. 

But  she,  no  bird  ever  sang  such  songs 

To  its  mate  from  contented  nest, 
As  tliis  wee  waiting  wife,  when  the  twilight 

Was  treading  the  glorious  west ; 
As  she  looked  through  the  clustering  roses, 

For  the  manly  form  that  would  come 
Up  through  the  cool  green  evening  fields 

To  this  sweet  little  wife  and  home. 

She  could  see  the  great  stone  mansion 

Towering  over  the  oaks'  dark  green, 
And  the  lawn  like  emerald  velvet, 

Fit  for  the  feet  of  a  queen ; 
But  round  this  brown-eyed  princess, 

Did  Love  his  ermine  fold, 
Queen  was  she  of  a  richer  realm, 

She  had  dearer  wealth  than  gold. 


KOSES    OF    JUNE. 

SHE  sat  in  the  cottage  door,  and  the  fair  June  moon  looked 

down 

On  a  face  as  pure  as  its  own,  an  innocent  face  and  sweet 
As  the  roses  dewy  white  that  grow  so  thick  at  her  feet, 

White,  royal  roses,  fit  for  a  monarch's  crown. 

And  one  is  clasped  in   her  slender  hand,   and   one   on  her 

bosom  lies, 

And  two  rare  blushing  buds  loop  up  her  light  brown  hair. 
Ah,  roses  of  June,  you  never  looked  on  a  face  so  white 

and  fair, 
Such  perfectly  moulded  lips,  such  sweet  and  heavenly  eyes. 

This   low-walled  home  is  dear  to  her,  she  has  come  to  it 

to-day 

From  the  lordly  groves  of  her  palace  home  afar, 
But  not  to  stay ;  there's  a  light  on  her  brow  like  the  light 

of  a  star, 
And  her  eyes  are  looking  beyond  the  earth,  far,  far  away. 

She  was  born  in  this  cottage  home,  the  sweetest  rosebud  of 
spring, 


ROSES  OF  JUNE.  151 

And  grew  with  its  flowers,  the  fairest  blossom  of  all. 
Till  her.  friends    ambitiously  said  she  would   grace  the 

kingliest  hall, 
And  flattery  breathed  on  her  ear  its  passionate  whispering. 

A  man  of  riches  and  taste  saw  the  maiden's  face, 

And  thought  her  beauty  would  grace  his  stately  southern 

home, 
So  he  took  her  there,  with  pictures  from  France,   and 

statues  from  Rome, 
And  marvellous  works  of  art  from  many  an  ancient  place. 

He  decked  her  in  costly  attire,  and  showed  her  beauty  with 

pride, 

As  for  sympathy  and  love,  what  need  of  these  had  she  ( 
He  had  placed  her  amidst  the  choicest  treasures  of  land 

and  sea, 

His  marble  Hebe  never  complained,  and  why  should  his 
bride  ? 

He  had  polished  the  beautiful  unknown  gem  and  set  it  in 

gold, 
He  had  given  her  his  name  and  his  wealth,   what  more 

could  she  ask  ? 
When  all  other  gifts  were  hers,  it  were  surely  an  easty 

task 
Her  pleading  spirit's  restless  wings  to  fold. 


153  HOSES  OF  JUNE. 

The  wise  world  called  her  blest,  so  heart  be  still, 

She  had  beauty,  and  splendor,  and  youth,  and  a  husband 

calmly  kind, 
And  crowds  of  flattering  friends  her  lofty  mansion  lined, 

And  dark-browed  slaves  awaited  her  queenly  will. 

AVhy  should  she  dream  of  the  past,  of  the  days  of  old, 
Of  her  childhood  home,  and  more  oft  of  the  home  of  the 

dead, 
Of  the  grave  where  she  went  alone  the  night  before  she 

was  wed, 
And  knelt,  with  her  pure  cheek  pressed  to  the  marble  cold  '{ 

It  was  not  sin,  she  said,  that  those  eyes  of  darkest  blue 
Haunted  her  dreams  more  wildly  from  day  to  day, 
Since  they  looked  on  Heaven  now,  and  she  was  so  far 
away, 

She  could  love  the  dead  and  still  be  to  the  living  true. 

She  could  think  of  him,  the  one  who  loved  her  best, 
Of  him  who  true  had  been  if  all  the  world  deceived, 
Who  felt  all  grief  with  her  when  she  was  grieved, 

And  shared  each  joy  that  thrilled  her  girlish  breast. 

It  was  not  sin  that  she  heard  that  voice,  gentle  and  deep, 
And  the  echo  of  a  name — it  was  cut  in  marble  now — 
So  it  was  not  sin,  she  said,  as  she  breathed  it  low 

In  the  midnight  hour  when  all  but  she  were  asleep. 


ROSES  OF  JUNE.  15:5 

But  she  wearier  grew  of  pride  and  pomp,  like  a  homesick 

child  she  pined, 

And  paler  grew  her  cheek,  as  worn  with  a  wearing  pain. 
She  said  the  fresh  free  country  air  would  seem  so  sweet 

again, 

So  she  went  to  her  childhood  home,  as  a  pilgrim  goes  to  a 
shrine, 

And  she  looked  down  the  orchard  path  and  the  meadow's 

clover  bloom  ; 
She  stood  by  the  stone-walled  well  that  had  mirrored  her 

face  when  a  child, 
She  saw  wliere  the  robins  built,  and  her  roses  clambered 

wild, 
And  lingered  lost  in  thought  in  each  low  and  rustic  room. 

And  she  sat  in  the  cottage  door  while  the  fair  June  moon 

looked  down 

On  a  face  as  pure  as  its  own,  an  innocent  face,  and  sweet 
As  the  roses  wet  with  dew  that  grew  so  thick  at  her  feet, 

White,  royal  roses,  fit  for  a  monarch's  crown. 

But  at  night,  when  silence  and  sleep  on  the  lonely  hamlet  fell 
Like  a  spirit  clad  in  white  through  the  graveyard  gate  she 

passed, 
And  the  stars  bent  down  to  hear,  "  I  have  come  to  you, 

love,  at  last," 
While  through  the  valley  solemnly  sounded  the  midnight  bell. 


154  ItOSES  OF  JUNE. 

And  her  southern  birds  will  wait  her  coming  in  vain, 

Their  starry  eyes  impatiently  pierce  the  palm-trees'  shade, 
And  her  roses  droop  in  their  bowers,  alone  they'll  wither 

and  fade. 

Roses  of  June  you  are  gone,  but  we  know  you  will  blossom 
again. 


MAGDALENA. 

WHO  falsely  called  thee  destroyer,  still  white  Angel  of  Death  ? 

Oh  not  a  destroyer  here,  but  a  kind  restorer,  them, 
For  the  guilty  look  is  gone,  died  out  with  her  failing  breath, 

And  the  sinless  peace  of  a  babe  has  come  to  lip  and  brow. 

Drowned  in  the  heaving  tide  with  her  life,  is  her  burden  of 

woe, 

The  dreary  weight  of  sin,  the  woeful,  troublesome  years, 
The  cold  pure  touch  of  the  water  has  washed  the  shame 

from  her  brow 
Leaving  a  calm  immortal,  that  looks  like  the  chrism  of  peace. 

I  fancy  her  smile  was  like  this,  as  she  pulled  at  her  mother's 

gown 
Drawing  her  out  with  childish  fingers  to  watch  the  red  of 

the  skies 
<  hi  the  old  brown  doorstep  of  home,  while  the  peaceful  sun 

went  down, 

With  her  mother's  hand  on  her  brow,  and  the  glow  of  the 
west  in  her  eyes. 

u  An  outcast  vile  and  lost,"  you  say,  yes,  she  went  astray, 
Astrav,  when  the  crimson  wine  of  life  ran  fresh  and  wild. 


156  MAGDALENA. 

"With  mother's  tender  hand  no  more  on  her  brow,  put  awav 
The  grasses  beneath,  and  she  was  alone  and  almost  a  child. 

Like  a  kid  decoyed  to  its  death,  the  stealthy  panther  lures, 
Mocking  the  voice  of  its  dam,  thus  he  led  the  innocent 
child 

Through  her  tenderness  down  to  ruin,  he  is  a  friend  of  yours, 
And  admired  by  all  ;  as  you  say,  "men  will  be  wild." 

But  I  wonder  if  God,  so  far  above  on  His  great  white  throne 
The  clanging  tumult  of  trouble  and  doubt  that  mortals  vex  ; 

"When  the  murmur  of  a  crime  sweeps  up  from  earth  with 

woeful  moan, 
If  He  pauses,  ere  He  condemns,  to  ask  the  offender's  sex. 

And  if  so,  whether  the  weaker  or  stronger  He  blames  the 

most, 
The  tempter  or  tempted  a  tithe  of  His  tender  compassion 

claims, 
Whether  the  selfish  or  too  unselfish,  those  who  through  love 

or  lust  are  lost, 
He  in  His  infinite  wisdom  and  mercy  most  condemns. 

Frown  not,  I  know  her  evil  our  womanly  nature  shuns. 
Turns  from,  with  shuddering  horror  ;  but  now  so  low  is 
her  head 

For  God's  sake,  woman,  remember  your  own  little  ones 
Lying  safely  at  home  in  their  snow-white  sheltered  bed. 


MAGDALENA.  157 

Your  own  little  girls,  for  them  does  the  flame  of  your  anger 

burn, 
ki  Such  creatures  will  draw  down  innocence  into  guilt  and 

woe." 

I  think  from  eternity  vast  she  will  scarcely  return 
To  entice  them  to  sin,  you  can  safely  forgive  her  now. 

"  You  will  not  countenance  wrong,  but  fiercely  war  for  the 

right 

Even  unto  the  bitter  death.1'  Very  good,  you  should  do  so, 
Hut,  my  friend,  if  your  own  secret  thought  had  blossomed  to 

light 

In  temptation, you  might  have  been  in  this  outcast's  place, 
you  know. 

So  let  us  be  pitiful,  grateful  that  God's  strong  hand 

Has  held  our  own,  and  the  tale  of  a  woman's  despair 
And  penitent  sin,  He  stooped  and  wrote  in  the  perishing 

sand  ; 

We  carve  the  record  in  stone,  weak,  sinful  souls  that  we 
are. 

In  the  arms  of  the  kind  all-mother,  but  close  to  the  sorrow 
ful  wave, 

With  its  voice  no  longer  moaning  to  her  a  despairing  call, 
But  a  dirge  deploring  and  deep  ;  we  will  make  her  grave, 

With  healing  grasses  above  her,  and  God  over  all. 


MY  ANGEL. 

LAST  night  she  came  unto  me, 

And  kneeling  by  my  side. 
Laid  her  head  upon  my  bosom, 

My  beautiful,  my  bride  ; 
My  lost  one,  with  her  soft  dark  eyes, 

And  waves  of  sunny  hair. 
I  smoothed  the  shining  tresses, 
"With  tearful,  fond  caresses, 

And  words  of  thankful  prayer. 

And  then  a  thrill  of  doubt  and  pain, 

My  jealous  heart  swept  o'er ; 
We  were  parted — she  was  dwelling 

Upon  a  far-off  shore  ; 
Yet  He  who  made  iny  sad  heart,  knew 

I  loved  her  more  and  more  ; 
My  love  more  true  and  perfect  grew, 

As  each  dark  day  passed  o'er  ; 
But  she  whose  heart  had  been  my  own, 

Who  loved  me  tenderly, 
Whose  last  low  words  I  knelt  to  hear, 

Were,  "  How  can  I  leave  thee  ?" 


MY  ANGEL.  159 

And  "  Death  would  seem  as  sweet  as  life. 

Could  we  together  be." 
Now,  though  we  two  were  parted 

By  such  a  distance  wide, 
By  such  a  strange  and  viewless  realm, 

By  such  a  boundless  tide, 
Her  gentle  face  was  radiant 

"With  a  surpassing  bliss  ; 
She  was  happier  in  that  distant  land, 

Than  she  ever  was  in  this. 
And  in  some  other  tenderness, 

Some  other  love  divine, 
She  had  found  a  peace  and  happiness, 

She  never  found  in  mine. 

So  with  a  tender  chiding, 

I  could  not  quite  suppress, 
Though  well  my  darling  knew 

I  would  not  make  her  pleasures  less. 
"  Are  you  happy,  love  ?"  I  said, 

"  Are  you  happy,  love,  without  me  ?" 
Then  she  raised  her  gentle  head, 

And  twined  her  arms  about  me  ; 
Yet  while  my  tears  fell  faster, 

Beneath  her  mute  caress, 
Her  face  had  all  the  glory 

Of  a  sainted  soul  at  rest ; 


100  MY  ANGEL. 

And  her  voice  was  sweet  as  music, 
"  I  am  happy — I  am  blest." 

u  Do  you  know  how  lonely-hearted 
I  have  been  each  weary  day, 

Praying  that  each  passing  hour 
Would  bear  my  life  away, 

That  we  might  be  united 
Fpon  that  distant  shore  ?" 

u  Laurence,  wre  are  not  parted, 
I  am  with  you  evermore." 

"  I  cannot  see  you,  darling, 
Your  face  I  cannot  see." 

k'  Can  you  see  the  moon's  white  fingers, 

That  leads  the  pleading  sea  ? 
Can  you  see  the  fragrance  lingering 

Where  summer  roses  be  ? 
The  soft  winds  tender  clasping, 

The  close-enwrapping  air 
Enfolding  you— Oh,  Laurence, 

I  am  with  you  everywhere." 

Then  while  her  face  grew  brighter 
As  with  a  heavenly  glow, 


MY  ANGEL.  161 

In  tenderness  unspeakable. 

She  kissed  my  lips  and  brow  ; 
Then  I  lost  her — then  she  left  me, 

As  at  the  set  of  day 
The  snowy  clouds  float  outward, 

And  melt  in  light  away. 
I  heard  low  strains  of  melody 

No  earthly  choir  could  sing, 
A  light  breath  floated  past  me, 

As  from  a  gliding  wing  ; 
And  on  my  darkened  spirit 

There  fell  so  bright  a  gleam, 
I  knew  the  blessed  vision 

Was  not  in  truth  a  dream  ; 
Though  death  had  won  from  my  embrace, 

My  beautiful,  my  bride, 
I  had  won  a  richer  treasure, 

An  angel  by  my  side. 

The  Father  careth  for  us  all 

In  pity,  and  I  know 
My  love  is  not  forever  gone 

From  him  who  loved  her  so  ; 
When  a  few  more  days  have  drifted 

Their  shadows  over  me, 
When  the  golden  gates  are  lifted, 

My  angel  I  shall  see  ; 


163  MY  ANGEL. 

Her  veiled  face  in  its  glory 
Upon  my  gaze  will  rise, 

And  Heaven  will  shine  upon  me 
Through  the  sweetness  of  her  eyes. 


GRIEF. 

WHAT  though  the  Eden  morns  were  sweet  with  song 
Passing  all  sweetness  that  our  thought  can  reach  ; 

Crushing  its  flowers  noon's  chariot  moved  along 
In  brightness  far  transcending  mortal  speech ; 

Yet  in  the  twilight  shades  did  God  appear, 

Oh  welcome  shadows  so  that  He  draw  near. 

Prosperity  is  flushed  with  Papal  ease 

And  grants  indulgences  to  pride  of  word, 

Robing  our  soul  in  pomp  and  vanities, 
Ah  !  no  fit  dwelling  for  our  gentle  Lord  ; 

Grief  rends  those  draperies  of  pride  and  sin, 

And  so  our  Lord  will  deign  to  enter  in. 

Then  carefully  we  curb  each  thought  of  wrong, 
We  walk  more  softly,  with  more  reverent  feet — 

As  in  His  presence  chamber,  hush  our  tongue, 
And  in  the  holy  quiet,  solemn,  sweet, 

We  feel  His  smile,  we  hear  His  voice  so  low, 

So  we  can  bless  Him  that  He  gave  us  woe. 

What  cares  the  sailor  in  the  sheltered  cove 
For  the  past  peril  of  the  stormy  sea  ; 


164  GRIEF. 

Dear  from  griefs  storm  the  haven  of  His  love, 
And  so  He  bringeth  us  where  we  would  be  ; 
We  trust  in  Him,  we  lean  upon  His  breast, 
Who  shall  make  trouble  when  He  giveth  rest  ? 


WILD  OATS. 

OH  gay  young  husbandmen  would  you  be  sure  of  a  crop 

Upspringing  rankly,  an  abundant  and  bountiful  yield  '? 

Go  forth  in  the  morning,  and  sow  on  your  life's  broad  field 
This  pleasantly  odorous  seed,  then  smooth  the  ground  on  top, 

Or  leave  it  rough,  with  the  utmost  undeceit, 
Never  you  fear,  it  will  thriftily  thrive  and  grow, 

Loading  the  harvest  plain  beneath  your  feet, 
With  the  ripened  sheaves  of  shame,  remorse,  and  woe. 

You  have  but  to  sow  the  seed,  no  care  will  it  want, 
For  he  who  soweth  tares  while  the  husbandman  sleeps 
Taketh  unwearied  pains,  a  vigilant  guard  he  keeps 

Tirelessly  watching,  and  tending  each  evil  plant. 

These  are  his  pleasure  gardens,  leased  to  him  through  time 
Where  he  walketh  to  and  fro,  chanting  a  demon  song : 
Tending  with  ghastly  fingers,  the  scarlet  buds  of  wrong, 

And  drinking  greedily  in  the  sweet  perfume  of  crime. 

And  of  all  the  seeds,  the  one  that  thriftiest  thrives 
Is  the  color  of  ruby  wine,  when  it  flashes  high— 
Who  would  think  the  tiny  seed  so  fair  to  the  eye 

Could  cast  such  a  deadly  shade  over  countless  lives, 


1C6  WILD  OATS. 

And  branch  out  into  murder  in  one  springing  shoot  ; 
Thrifty  branches  of  sin,  bristling  with  thorns  of  woe 
Shadowing  graves  where  broken  hearts  lie  low, 

And  minds  that  were  God-like  lowered  beneath  the  brute. 


AUTUMN. 

How  the  sumac  banners  bent,  dripping  as  if  with  blood, 
What  a  mournful  presence  brooded  upon  the  slumbrous 

air ; 
A  mocking-bird   screamed    noisily   in    the    depths   of   the 

silent  wood, 

And  in  my  heart  was  crying  the  raven  of  despair, 
Thrilling  my  being  through  with  its  bitter,  bitter  cry— 
u  It  were  better  to  die,  it  were  better  to  die." 

For  she,  my  love,  my  fate,  she  sat  by  my  side 

On  a  fallen  oak,  her  cheek    all   flushed  with  a  bashful 

shame, 
Telling  me  what  her  innocent  heart  had  hid — 

"For  was  not  I  her  brother,  her  dear  brother,  all  but  in 

name." 

I  listened  to  her  low  words,  but  turned  my  face  away— 
Away  from  her  eyes'  soft  light,  and  the  mocking  light  of  the 
day. 

"  He  was  noble  and  proud,"  she  said,  "  and  had  chosen  her 

from  all 
The  haughty  ladies,  and  great ;  she  didn't  deserve  her  lot." 


1G8  AUTUMN. 

I  knew  her  peer  could  never  be  found  in  palace  or  hall, 

And  my  white  face  told  my  thought,  but  she  saw  it  not. 
She  was  crushing  some  scarlet  leaves  in  her  dainty  finders 

of  snow, 
Her  maiden  joy  crowning  her  face  with  a  radiant  glow. 

"  She  had  wanted  me  to  know,"  and  then  a  smile  and  a 

blush ; 

Her  smile  was  always  just  like  a  baby's  smile,  and  the  red 
Came  to  her  cheek  at  a  word  or  a  glance — then  there  fell 

a  hush. 

She  was  waiting  some  word  from  me,  I  knew,  so  I  said, 
"  May  Heaven  bless  you  both  " — words  spoken  full  quietly, 
And  she,  God  bless  her,  never  knew  how  much  they  cost 
to  me. 

How  the  sumac  banners  bent,  dripping  as  if  with  blood. 
What  a  mournful  presence  brooded  upon  the  slumbrous 

air; 
A  mocking-bird  screamed  noisily  in  the  depths  of  the  silent 

wood, 

And  in  my  heart  was  crying  the  raven  of  despair, 
Thrilling  my  being  through  with  its  desolate,  desolate  cry— 
"  It  were  better  to  die,  it  were  better  to  die." 

The  white  dawn  follows  the  darkness ;  out  of  the  years'  decay 
Shineth  the   golden    fire  that  gildeth  the  autumn  with 
light; 


AUTUMN.  169 

From  another's  sin  and  loss,  cometh  this  good  to  me, 
By  another's  fall  am  I  raised  to  this  blissful  height. 
u  Let  me  be  humble,"  said  my  heart,  as  from  her  sweet  lips 

fell, 

"  Let  a  prayer  for  him  arise,  with  the  sound  of  our  marriage 
bell." 


THE   FAIEEST   LAND. 

'TWAS  a  bleak  dull  moor  that  stretched  before 
The  low  stone  porch  of  the  cottage  door, 
And  standing  there  was  a  youth  and  maid, 
He  for  long  journeying  seemed  arrayed, 
And  the  sunset  flamed  in  the  burnished  west, 
And  a  proud  throb  beat  in  the  young  man's  breast, 
As  he  whispered,  "  Sweet,  will  you  come  to  me 
In  that  fairer  land  beyond  the  sea  ?" 

"  The  wonderful  western  land  ;  in  dreams 
I  have  seen  its  prairies  green,  and  gleams 
Of  its  shining  waterfalls,  valleys  fair, 
And  a  voice  in  my  dreams  has  called  me  there 
Where  man  is  a  man,  and  not  a  clod, 
And  must  bend  the  knee  to  none  but  God. 
A  home  will  I  make  for  thee  and  me 
In  that  fairer  land  beyond  the  sea." 

"  But  the  cruel  sea  where  the  fated  ships 

Go  down  to  their  doom"--  But  he  kissed  the  lips — 

The  trembling  lips,  till  they  smiled  again, 

And  his  bright  hopes  cheered  her  heart's  dull  pain, 


THE  FAIREST  LAND.  171 

And  she  laid  her  head  on  his  hopeful  breast, 
And  looked  with  him  to  the  glowing  west, 
And  said,  u  I  will  come,  I  will  come  to  thee 
To  that  fairer  land  beyond  the  sea." 

And  the  crimson  light  changed  to  daffodil — 
To  ashen,  gray,  but  they  stood  there  still, 
And  high  o'er  the  west  shone  the  evening  star 
As  still  he  pictured  that  home  afar — 
"  The  peace  and  the  bliss  our  own  at  last 
When  this  dreary  parting  all  is  past, 
When  my  heart's  dear  love,  you  come  to  me^ 
In  that  fairer  land  beyond  the  sea/1 

So  he  sailed  ;  but  saddest  'tis  alway 
Xot  for  those  who  go,  but  for  those  who  stay ; 
And  her  sweet  eyes  gathered  a  shadow  dim 
As  days  went  by  with  no  news  of  him, 
And  weeks  and  months,  but  at  last  it  came. 
As  the  gray  moor  shone  with  the  sunset  flame 
Her  quick  eyes  glanced  the  strange  lines  o'er, 
Then  she  fell  like  dead  on  the  cottage  floor. 

*Twas  a  stranded  ship  on  a  rocky  coast, 
One  true  heart  brave,  when  hope  was  lost, 
How  he  toiled  till  all  the  shore  had  gained, 
And  onlv  a  babv  form  remained 


172  THE  FAIREST  LAND, 

On  ship,  how  he  breasted  the  surging  tide 
With  Death  a-wrestling  side  by  side, 
How  lie  lifted  the  child  to  its  mother's  knee, 
As  a  great  wave  washed  him  out  to  sea. 

And  for  days  the  maid  in  the  cottage  door 
Sat  and  looked  o'er  the  dreary  moor. 
Her  cheeks  grew  white  'neath  her  blinding  tears, 
And  the  sunset  rays  seemed  cruel  spears 
That  pierced  her  heart ;  and  ashen  gray 
Turned  the  earth  and  sky,  the  night,  the  day  ; 
J>ut  at  last  a  star  shone  high  above — 
The  tender  star  of  the  heavenly  love. 

For  as  her  life  ebbed  day  by  day, 
The  High  Countrie,  the  Fair  alway, 
Rose  'fore  her  eyes,  the  safe,  sweet  home, 
And  she  seemed  to  hear,  "  Love,  will  you  corne  ?': 
And  so  one  eve  when  a  bridge  of  gold 
Seemed  spanning  the  last  sea  dim  and  cold, 
She  went  to  him,  for  aye  to  be 
In  the  Fairest  land  beyond  the  sea. 


THE  MESSENGER. 

Is  liis  form  hidden  by  some  cliff  or  crag, 
Or  does  lie  loiter  on  the  shelving  shore  ? 

We  know  not,  though  we  know  he  waits  for  us, 
Somewhere  upon  the  road  that  lies  before. 

And  when  he  bids  us  we  must  follow  him, 

Must  leave  our  half-drawn  nets,  our  houses,  lands, 

And  those  we  love  the  most,  and  best,  ah  they 
In  vain  will  cling  to  us  with  pleading  hands ! 

He  will  not  wait  for  us  to  gird  our  robes, 
And  be  they  white  as  saints,  or  soiled  and  dim, 

We  can  but  gather  them  around  our  form, 
And  take  his  icy  hand  and  follow  him. 

Oli  !   will  our  palm  cling  to  another  palm, 

Loath,  loath  to  loose  our  hold  of  love's  warm  grasp 

Or  shall  we  free  our  hand  from  the  hand  of  grief, 
And  reach  it  gladly  out  to  meet  his  clasp  \ 

Sometimes  I  marvel  when  wre  two  shall  meet, 
When  I  shall  hear  that  stealthy  step,  and  see 

The  unseen  form  that  haunteth  mortal  dreams, 
The  stern-browed  face,  the  eyes  of  mystery. 


174  THE  MESSENGER. 

Si  mil  I  be  waiting  for  some  wished-for  wealth. 
Impatient,  by  the  shore  of  a  purple  sea  ' 

But  when  the  vessel's  keel  grates  on  the  sand. 
"Will  he  lean  down  its  side  and  call  to  me '( 

Shall  I  in  thymy  pastures  cool  and  sweet 
See  the  lark  soaring  through  the  rosy  air  ? 

Ah,  then,  will  his  dark  face  look  down  on  me, 
'Xeath  the  white  splendor  of  the  morning  star  '. 

Shall  I  be  resting  from  the  noonday  blaze, 
In  the  rich  summer  of  a  blossoming  land, 

And  idly  glancing  through  the  lotus  leaves, 
Behold  the  shadow  of  his  beckoning  hand  ? 

Or  in  some  inland  village,  shaded  deep, 
AVitli  silence  brooding  o'er  the  quiet  place. 

Shall  I  look  from  some  lattice  crowned  with  flowers, 
In  the  calm  twilight  and  behold  his  face  2 

Or  shall  I  over  such  a  lonely  way. 

Beset  with  fears,  my  weary  footsteps  wend, 

So  desolate,  that  I  shall  greet  his  face 

With  joy  as  a  desired  and  welcome  friend  ( 

( )h,  little  matters  it  when  we  shall  meet, 

Upon  the  quiet  shore,  or  on  the  sea, 
If  he  shall  lead  us  to  the  golden  gate, 

Dear  Lord,  if  he  shall  lead  us  unto  Thee. 


SLEEP. 

COME,  gentle  sleep,  with  the  holy  night, 

Come  with  the  stars  and  the  white  moonbeams. 

Come  with  your  train  of  handmaids  bright. 
Blessed  and  beautiful  dreams. 

I 'ring  the  exile  to  his  home  again, 

Let  him  catch  the  gleam  of  its  low  white;  wall  : 
Let  his  wife  cling  to  his  neck  and  weep, 

And  his  children  come  at  their  father's  call. 

Give  to  the  mother  the  child  she  lost, 

Laid  from  her  heart  to  a  clay-cold  bed ; 
Let  its  breath  float  over  her  tear- wet  cheek, 

And  her  cold  heart  warm  'neath  its  bright  young  head. 

Take  the  sinner's  hand  and  lead  him  back 
To  his  sinless  youth  and  his  mother's  knee  ; 

Let  him  kneel  again  'neath  her  tender  look, 
And  murmur  the  prayer  of  his  infancy. 

Lead  the  aged  into  that  wondrous  clime, 

Home  of  their  youth  and  land  of  their  bliss  ; 

Lot  them  forget  in  that  beautiful  world, 
The  sin  and  the  sorrow  of  this. 


«  SLEEP. 

And  gently  lead  my  love,  my  own. 
Tenderly  clasp  her  snow-white  hand, 

AVrup  her  in  garments  of  soft  repose, 
And  lead  her  into  your  mystic  land. 

Let  your  fairest  handmaids  bow  at  her  feet, 
1 1  er  path  o'er  your  loveliest  roses  be  ; 

And  let  all  the  flowers  with  their  perfumed  lips 
Whisper  of  me — of  me. 

Come,  gentle  sleep,  with  the  holy  night, 

Come  with  the  stars  and  the  white  moonbeams, 

( 1ome  with  your  train  of  handmaids  bright, 
Blessed  and  beautiful  dreams. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   SIREN. 

On,  I  am  the  siren,  the  siren  of  the  sea, 

The  sea,  the  wondrons  sea,  that  lies  forevermore  "before ; 
I  stand  a  fairy  shape  upon  the  shadow  of  a  cliff 

Where  the  water's  drowsy  ripple  laps  the  phantom  of  a 

shore, 

And,  oh,  so  fair,  so  fair  am  I,  I  draw  all  hearts  to  me, 
For  I  am  the  siren,  the  siren  of  the  sea. 

All  the  glory  of  my  golden  tresses  gleams  upon  the  air, 
How  it  falls  about  my  snowy  shoulders,  round   and   hare 

and  white  ; 
My  lips  are  full   of  love  as   rounded    grapes   are    full   of 

wine, 
And  my  eyes  are  large  and  languid,   and  full  of  dewy 

light ; 

Oh,  I  lure  the  idle  landsmen  many  a  league  for  love  of  me, 
For  I  am  the  siren,  the  siren  of  the  sea. 

Sometimes  they  press  so  near  that  my  breath  is  on   their 

cheek, 

And  their  eager  hands  can  almost  touch  the  glowing  bowl 
I  bear, 


.1  TS  THE  SONG   OF  THE  SIREN. 

They  can  see  the  beaded  froth,  the  ruby  glitter  of  the  wine, 
Then  I  slip  from  their  embraces  like  u  breath  of  summer 

air  ; 

Oli,  I  lightly,  lightly  glide  away,  they  come  no  nigher  me, 
For  T  am  the  siren,  the  siren  of  the  sea. 

Sometimes  I  float  along  a-standing  in  a  boat, 

Before  the  ships  becalmed,  where  dusky  sailors  stand, 
And  the  helmsman  drops  his  oar,  and  the  lookout  leaves  his 

glass, 
So  I  beckon  them,  and  lure  them,  with   the   whiteness  of 

my  hand ; 

Oh,  this  the  song  I  sing,  well  they  listen  unto  me  \ 
For  I  am  the  siren,  the  siren  of  the  sea. 

Would  you  from  toil  and  labor  flee, 
Oh  float  ye  out  on  this  wonderful  sea, 
From  islands  of  spice  the  zephyrs  blow, 
Swaying  the  galleys  to  and  fro  ; 
Silken  sails  and  a  balmy  breeze 
Shall  waft  you  unto  a  perfect  ease. 

Fold  your  hands  and  rest,  and  rest, 
The  sun  sails  on  from  the  east  to  the  west, 
The  days  will  come,  and  the  days  will  go, 
What  good  can  man  for  his  labor  show 
In  passionless  peace,  come  float  with  me 
Over  the  waves  of  this  wonderful  sea. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SIREN.  179 

Would  you  forget,  oh  sorrowful  soul, 
Come  and  drink  of  this  golden  bowl, 
With  jewelled  poppies  about  the  rim, 
Drink  of  the  wine  that  flushes  its  brim, 
And  drown  all  your  haunting  memories  there, 
Your  woe  and  your  weary  care. 

Oh,  I  am  the  siren,  the  siren  of  the  sea, 

The  sea,  the  wondrous  sea,  that  lies  forevermore  before  ; 
Oh,  the  mystic  music  ripples,  how  they  break  in  rosy  spray, 

But  the  crystal  wave  will  mock  them,  they  will  reach  it 

nevermore, 

For  it  glides  away,  I  glide  away,  they  come  no  iiigher  me, 
For  I  am  the  siren,  the  siren  of  the  sea. 


EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-TWO. 


THERE'S  a  tear  in  your  eye,  little  Sybil, 

Gathering  large  and  slow  ; 
Oh,  Sybil,  sweet  little  Sybil, 

What  are  you  thinking  of  now  ( 

Push  back  the  velvet  curtains 

That  darken  the  lonely  room, 
For  shadows  peer  out  of  their  crimson  depths, 

And  the  statues  gleam  white  in  the  gloom. 

How  the  cannons'  thunder  rolls  along, 

And  shakes  the  lattice  and  wall, 
Oh,  Sybil,  sweet  little  Sybil, 

What  if  your  father  should  fall  ? 

The  smoky  clouds  sweep  up  from  the  field 

And  darken  the  earth  and  sea, 
"  God  save  him  !  God  save  him !" 

Wherever  he  may  be. 


EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-TWO.  183 


ii. 


Oh,  pretty  dark-eyed  bird  of  the  South, 
With  your  face  so  mournful  and  white 

There  is  many  a  little  Northern  girl 
That  is  breathing  that  prayer  to-night. 

There's  a  little  girl  on  the  hills  of  Maine 
Looking  out  through  the  fading  light, 

She  looks  down  the  winding  path,  and  says, 
"  He  will  surely  come  to-night  !v 

The  table  is  set,  the  lamp  is  trimmed, 

The  tire  has  a  ruddy  glow 
That  streams  like  a  beacon  down  the  path, 

To  the  dusky  valley  below. 

There  is  smiling  hope  on  the  pretty  face 

Pressed  so  close  to  the  pane, 
And  her  eyes  are  like  blue  violets 

After  a  summer  rain. 


in. 


How  you  tremble,  little  Sybil, 
At  the  cannons1  dreadful  sound, 

Did  you  see  far  away,  the  fallen  steed, 
And  its  rider  prone  on  the  ground  i 


EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-TWO. 

The  dark  brown  locks  so  low  in  the  dust, 
The  scarf  with  a  crimson  stain — 

Oh,  Sybil,  poor  little  Sybil, 
lie  will  not  come  back  again. 


IV. 


Right  gallantly  and  well  he  fought 
Hand  to  hand  with  as  brave  a  foe, 

Their  faces  hid  by  the  nodding  plumes, 
And  the  dense  clouds  hanging  low. 

Did  they  think,  these  hot-blooded  captains, 
That  Death  was  so  close  by  their  side. 

When  Howard  has  fallen,  the  bravest 

Rung  out  on  the  air  far  and  wide. 

"  Howard  ?"  His  foeman  kneels  by  his  side, 
And  raises  his  head  to  his  knee — 

Oh,  God  !  that  brothers  should  part  in  youth, 
And  thus  should  their  meeting  be. 

Unheard  is  the  deafening  battle  roar, 

Unseen  is  that  dying  look  ; 
He  hears  but  the  sound  of  a  childish  laugh, 

And  the  song  of  a  Northern  brook. 


EIGHTEEN  SIXTY- TWO.  185 

He  sees  two  white  forms  kneeling 

In  the  twilight  sweet  and  dim, 
One  low  couch  angel-guarded, 

By  a  mothers  evening  hymn. 


v. 

The  Angel  of  Death  came  down  with  the  night, 
Came  down  with  the  gathering  gloom  ; 

God  pity  the  little  dark-eyed  girl, 
Alone  in  the  lonely  room. 

But  still  by  his  side  his  brother  kneels, 

Chill  horror  has  frozen  his  veins ; 
He  heeds  not  the  glancing  shower  of  shells, 

That  with  red  fire  glitters  and  rains. 

And  he  heeds  not  the  fiery  cavalry  charge, 

That  sweeps  like  a  billow  on 
To  death,  oh,  the  bravest  and  saddest  sightt 

That  man  ever  gazed  upon  ! 

The  last  shot !    What  is  one  life 

To  the  battle's  gory  gain  ? 
But,  alas,  for  the  little  blue-eyed  maid 

Away  on  the  hills  of  Maine  ! 


AWEARY. 

THE  clouds  that  vex  the  upper  deep 
Stay  not  the  white  sail  of  the  moon  ; 

And  lips  may  moan,  and  hearts  may  weep. 
The  sad  old  earth  goes  rolling  on. 

O'er  smiling  vale,  and  sighing  lake. 
One  shadow  cold  is  overthrown  ; 

And  souls  may  faint,  and  hearts  may  break. 
The  sad  old  earth  goes  rolling  on. 


TOO   LOW. 

MY  house  is  thatched  with  violet  leaves 

And  paved  with  daisies  fine, 
Scarlet  berries  droop  over  its  eaves, 

Tall  grasses  round  it  shine  ; 
With  softest  down  I  have  lined  my  nest. 
Securely  now  will  I  sit  and  rest. 

When  their  wings  break  from  their  silvery  shell, 

Touched  by  my  tender  care, 
Here  shall  my  little  ones  safely  dwell. 

Little  ones  soft  and  fair ; 

Some  summer  morn  they  shall  try  their  wings 
While  their  father  sits  by  my  side  and  sings." 

Hard  by,  just  over  the  streamlet's  edge 

A  great  rock  towered  in  might, 
High  up,  half  hidden  in  moss  and  sedge. 

Were  safe  little  nooks  and  bright ; 
Ah  well  for  the  bird  with  her  tender  breast, 
Had  she  flown  to  the  rock  to  build  her  nest ! 

Poor  bird,  she  built  her  nest  too  low  ; 

Alas  !  for  the  bird,  alas  ! 


188  TOO  LOW. 

That  she  chose  that  spot  to  her  woe 

In  the  low  dewy  grass  ; 

For  the  reaper  came  with  his  gleaming  blade. 
Alas  for  love  in  the  violet  shade  ! 


AT  LAST. 

WHAT  though  upon  a  wintry  sea  our  life  hark  sails, 
What  though  we  tremhle  'neatli  its  cruel  gales, 

Its  icy  hlast; 

We  see  a  happy  port  lie  far  "before, 
We  see  its  shining  waves,  its  sunny  shore, 
Where  we  shall  wander,  and  forget  the  troubled  past, 

At  last. 

No  storms  approach  that  quiet  shore,  no  night 
Falls  on  its  silver  streams,  and  valleys  bright, 

And  gardens  vast ; 

Within  that  pleasant  land  of  perfect  peace 
Our  toil-worn  feet  shall  stay,  our  wanderings  cease ; 
There  shall  we,  resting,  all  forget  the  past, 

At  last. 

The  sorrows  we  have  hid  in  silent  weariness, 
As  birds  above  a  wounded,  bleeding  breast, 

Their  bright  plumes  cast ; 
The  griefs  like  mourners  in  a  dark  array, 
That  haunt  our  footsteps  here,  will  flee  away. 
And  leave  us  to  forget  the  sorrowful  past, 

At  last. 


190  AT  LAST. 

Voices  we  loved  sound  from  those  far-off  lands, 
And  thrill  our  hearts  ;  life's  golden  sands 

Are  dropping  fast ; 

Soon  shall  we  meet  by  the  river  of  peace,  and  say, 
As  the  night  flees  before  the  eye  of  day, 
So  faded  from  our  eyes  the  mournful  past, 

At  last. 


TWILIGHT, 

DRAPED  in  shadows  stands  the  mountain 

Against  the  eastern  sky, 
Above  it  the  fair  summer  moon 

Looks  downward  tenderly  ; 
And  Venus  in  the  glowing  west, 

Opens  her  languid  eye, 

Now  the  winds  breathe  softer  music, 

Half  a  song,  and  half  a  sigh  ; 
While  twilight  wraps  her  purple  veil 

Around  us  silently, 
And  our  thoughts  appear  like  pictures, 

Pictures  shaded  wondrously. 

Quiet  landscapes,  sweet  and  lonely, 
Silvery  sea,  and  shadowy  glade, 

Forest  lakes  by  man  forsaken, 

Where  the  white  fawn's  steps  are  stayed ; 

And  cohtadinos  straying 

'Neath  the  Pantheon's  solemn  shade. 

And  we  see  the  wave  bridged  over 
By  the  moonlight's  mystic  link, 


19-2  TWILIGHT. 

Desert  wells  by  tall  palms  shaded, 
Where  dusky  camels  drink  ; 

"While  dark-eyed  Arab  maidens 
Fill  their  pitchers  at  the  brink. 

And  secluded  convent  chapels, 
Where  veiled  nuns  kneel  to  pray, 

With  a  dim  light  streaming  o'er  them 
Through  arches  quaint  and  gray, 

While  down  the  long  and  winding  aisles 
Low  music  dies  away. 

There  is  a  starry  twilight 
Of  the  soul,  as  sadly  fair, 

When  our  wild  emotions  are  at  rest, 
Like  the  pale  nuns  at  prayer ; 

And  our  griefs  are  hushed  like  sleepers, 
And  put  off  the  robes  of  care. 


THE  SEWIXG-GIKL. 

I  ASKED  to  see  the  dead  man's  face, 

As  I  gave  the  servant  my  well-filled  basket ; 
And  she  deigned  to  lead  me,  a  wondrous  grace, 

Where  he  lay  asleep  in  his  rosewood  casket. 
I  was  only  the  sewing-girl,  and  he  the  heir  to  this  princely 
palace. 

Flowers,  white  flowers,  everywhere, 
In  odorous  cross,  and  anchor,  and  chalice. 

The  smallest  leaf  might  touch  his  hair ; 
But  I — my  God  !  I  must  stand  apart, 
With  my  hands  pressed  silently  on  my  heart, 
I  must  not  touch  the  least  brown  curl  ; 
For  I  was  only  the  sewing-girl. 

If  his  stately  mother  knew  what  I  know, 

As  she  weeping  stood  by  his  side  this  morning, 

Would  she  clasp  me  in  motherly  love  and  woe— 
Or  drive  me  out  in  the  cold  with  scorning  2 

If  she  knew  that  I  loved  him  better  than  life, 
Better  than  death  ;  since  for  him  I  gave 

My  hopes  of  rest,  that  I  faced  life's  strife, 
And  renounced  the  quiet  and  restful  grave, 


194  THE  SEWING-GIRL. 

When  his  strong,  true  hand  drew  me  back  that  day. 
When  woe,  and  want,  and  the  want  of  pity 

Drove  me  down  where  the  cold  waves  lay 

Like  wolves  round  the  walls  of  this  cruel  city. 

"  Not  much  ?"  would  she  say  with  her  proud  lip's  curl- 

"  Only  the  life  of  a  sewing-girl  ?" 

Xo  love  for  me  in  his  heart  did  linger — 

I  saw  the  lady,  his  promised  "bride, 
I  saw  his  ring  on  her  slender  finger, 

As  she  weeping  stood  by  his  mother's  side. 
That  same  ring  shone,  as  he  lifted  me 

Dripping  and  cold  from  the  sea-waves  bitter. 
I  had  thought  Heaven's  light  I  next  should  see, 

But  earth's  sun  shone  in  its  ruby  glitter ; 
I  had  thought  when  I  looked  in  the  Lord's  mild  face, 

That  He  w^ould  forgive  my  rashness  and  sin, 
When  He  knew  there  w^as  not  a  single  place, 

Not  a  place  so  small  that  I  could  creep  in. 
And  I  wanted  a  home,  and  I  longed  for  love, 
And  God  and  mother  were  both  above. 
But  he  showed  me  my  sin,  and  taught  me  to  live, 
Above  this  life  of  tumult  and  whirl, 
Though  I  was  only  a  sewing-girl. 

What  shall  I  do  with  the  life  he  won, 

From  death  that  day,  in  a  hard-won  battle  ? 


THE  SEWING-GIRL.  195 


Shall  I  lay  it  down  e'er  the  rising  sun 

Looks  down  on  the  city's  roar  and  rattle  ? 
Shall  I  lay  it  down  e'er  the  midnight  dim 
With  horrible  shadows  is  roofed  and  paved  ? 

Xo,  I  will  make  it  so  pure  and  sweet, 
That  angels  shall  say  with  smiles  to  him, 

When  we.  meet  above  on  the  golden  street 
"  Behold  the  soul  of  her  you  saved." 
Maybe  it  shall  add  to  his  crown  one  pearl, 
Though  only  the  soul  of  a  sewing-girl. 


HARRY   THE   FIRST. 

IN  his  arm-chair,  warmly  cushioned, 

In  the  quiet  earned  by  labor, 

Life's  reposeful  Indian  summer, 

Grandpa  sits ;  and  lets  the  paper 

Lie  upon  his  knee  unheeded. 

Shine  his  cheeks  like  winter  apples, 

Gleams  his  smile  like  autumn  sunshine, 

As  he  looks  on  little  Harry, 

First-born  of  the  house  of  Graham, 

Bravely  cutting  teeth  in  silence, 

Cutting  teeth  with  looks  heroic. 

Some  deep  thought  seems  moving  Grandpa, 

Ponders  he  awhile  in  silence, 

Then  he  turns,  and  says  to  Grandma, 

"  Nancy,  do  you  think  that  ever 

There  was  such  a  child  before  ?" 

Grandma,  with  her  prim  precision 
The  seam-stitch  impaleth  deftly 
On  her  sharp  and  glittering  needle, 
Then  she  turns  and  answers  calmly, 


HARRY  THE  FIRST.  197. 

With  a  deep  assurance — "  Never 
Was  there  such  a  child  before !" 

Papa  thinks  so,  but  in  manly 
Dignity  controls  his  feelings  ; 
More  than  half  a  year  a  father, 
He  must  show  a  cool  composure, 
He  must  stately  be  if  ever. 
But  his  dark  eyes  plainly  tell  it, 
Tell  it,  as  he  sayeth  proudly, 
"  Papa's  man  is  little  Harry." 

Mamma,  maybe,  does  not  speak  it, 
But  she  prints  the  thought  on  velvet, 
Eosy-hued,  with  fondest  kisses, 
When  the  pink,  soft  page  is  lying 
Folded  closely  to  her  bosom. 

A  little  farther  goes  his  auntie, 
Aged  fourteen — age  of  fancy  ; 
She  looks  down  the  future  ages 
With  her  wise,  prophetic  vision  ; 
Sees  the  babies  pass  before  her, 
Babies  of  the  twentieth  century, 
All  the  long  and  dusty  ages, 
To  the  thousand  years  of  glory. 
Oh,  the  host  of  bright-eyed  children, 
Thronging  like  the  stars  at  midnight, 


108  HARRY  THE  FIRST. 

Faces  sweet  and  countless,  as  the 
Rose-leaves  of  a  thousand  summers. 
All  the  pretty  heads  so  curly 
That  shall  hold  a  riper  wisdom^ 
Than  our  youthful  planet  dreams  of ; 
All  the  ranks  of  dimpled  shoulders, 
That  shall  move  Time's  rolling  chariot 

o 

Nearer  to  the  golden  city  ; 

Yieweth  these  the  blue-eyed  prophet, 

Still  the  oracle  says  calmly, 

Speaks  the  seer  with  golden  tresses — 

"  No  !  there  never  was,  nor  will  be 

Such  a  child  as  our  Harry, 

Such  a  noble  boy  as  Harry." 

Summer  brings  a  wealth  of  flowers, 
Flowers  of  every  form  and  color, 
Orange,  crimson,  royal  purple, 
All  along  the  mountain  passes, 
All  along  the  pleasant  valley, 
Low  the  emerald  branches  bendeth 
"With  their  weight  of  summer  glory. 

But  they  do  not  waken  in  us 
Half  the  tender,  blissful  feeling, 
Half  the  pure  and  sweet  emotion 
As  the  first  spring-flower  in  April, 


HARRY  THE  FIRST.  199 

With  its  lashes  tinged  with  crimson, 
Partly  raised  from  eyes  half -timid, 
Fearful  that  the  snow  will  drown  it ; 
How  we  love  the  dainty  blossom, 
How  we  wear  it  in  our  bosom. 

Just  so  with  the  tree  ancestral, 
Many  flowers  may  blossom  on  it, 
But  the  first  wee  bud  that's  grafted, 
To  its  heart,  ah,  how  we  love  it ; 
Others  may  be  loved  as  fondly, 
But  they  are  not  loved  so  proudly, 
Loved  so  blindly,  so  entirely. 

Yes,  when  first  the  heart's  door  opens 
To  the  touch  of  baby  fingers, 
Quick  the  dimpled  feet  will  bear  them 
To  the  dearest  place  and  warmes* 
Plenty  room  enough  for  other 
Buds  of  beauty,  buds  of  promise, 
In  the  heart's  capacious  chambers  ; 
But  the  first  is  firmly  settled — 
Little  Harry's  firmly  settled 
In  the  centre  of  affection  ; 
Later  ones  must  settle  round  him. 


THE  CEIMINAL'S  BETKOTHED. 

As  on  a  waveless  sea,  a  vessel  strikes 

Upon  a  treacherous  rock  ; 
AVaking  the  sailors  from  their  happy  dreams 

By  the  swift,  terrible  shock. 

Dreaming  of  shaded  village  streets,  and  home, 

Forgetting  the  cruel  sea 
Till  the  shock  came — so  woke  I,  yet  I  know 

'Twas  Love,  I  loved,  not  he. 

'Tis  not  the  star  the  wave  so  wildly  clasps, 
Only  its  form  reflected  in  the  stream  ; 

'Tis  not  a  broken  heart  I  mourn. 
Only  a  broken  dream. 

I  should  have  died  when  he  was  brought  so  low, 

Had  it  been  him  I  loved, 
Died  clinging  to  him,  as  to  the  blasted  oak 

The  ivy  clings  unmoved. 

'Twas  Love  that  looked  on  me  with  strange,  sweet  eyes 

Burning  with  marvellous  flame  ; 
Love  was  the  idol  that  I  worshipped,  though 

I  gave  to  it  his  name. 


THE  CRIMINAL'S  BETROTHED.  201 

I  gave  to  Love  liis  name,  his  glance,  his  brow, 

His  low-toned  voice,  his  smile, 
Oh,  soul  be  patient ;  I  can  sever  them 

But  yet  a  little  while — 

Before  I  put  away  these  outward  forms 

Deceiving,  sweet  disguises,  which  Love  wore 

Let  my  heart  break  into  regretful  tears 
Just  once,  and  then  no  more. 

Just  once,  as  fond  friends  watch  the  fading  sail 
Bearing  away  a  guest  of  truest  worth, 

They  give  this  little  time  to  grief,  and  then 
Keturn  to  their  desolate  hearth, 

And  build  new  fires,  and  gather  dewy  flowers, 
Let  the  pure  air  into  the  vacant  room, 

So  light,  and  bloom,  and  sweetness,  all 
Shall  penetrate  its  gloom. 

I  will  be  patient,  in  a  little  time 

Quiet,  and  full  of  rest, 
God's  peace  will  come,  and,  like  a  soft-winged  bird, 

Settle  upon  my  breast. 

Not  always  thus  shall  beat  my  restless  heart 
Like  a  wild  eagle  'gainst  its  prison-bars  ; 

In  some  calm  twilight  of  the  future  time 
I  will  sit,  calm-browed,  underneath  the  stars. 


GONE    BEFOKE. 

FOLD  the  hands 
Gently  o'er  the  silent  heart, 
Soft  palms  nevermore  to  part 

From  their  quiet  rest ; 
Ne'er  to  cling  to  broken  reeds, 
Plucking  flowers  to  find  them  weeds  ; 
Ne'er  to  raise  in  anguished  prayer, 
Nor  to  clasp  in  wild  despair 
O'er  a  heart  that  bleeds  ; 
Softly  o'er  the  peaceful  breast, 

Fold  the  hands. 

Close  the  eyes ; 
Loving  eyes  of  softest  blue, 
Tender  eyes  of  Heaven's  own  hue, 

Close  in  sleep. 

Sleep  thee,  darling,  through  the  night, 
Dreaming  fancies  blest  and  bright, 
Visions  bathed  in  heavenly  day, 
Ne'er  to  fade  and  melt  away 
In  the  morning  light ; 
Dear  eyes,  nevermore  to  weep, 

Close  in  sleep. 


GONE  BEFORE.  203 

Smooth  the  hair ; 
Silken  waves  of  sunny  brown 
Lay  upon  the  white  brow  down, 
Crowned  with  blossoms  rare  ; 
Lilies  on  a  golden  stream, 
Ne'er  to  fall  in  tendrils  bright 
On  her  shoulders  bare  and  white  ; 
Ne'er  to  float  in  summer  air 
Wreathed  with  meadow  daisies  fair. 
Lay  away  the  broken  crown 
And  your  broken  dream, 
With  one  shining  tress  of  hair, 
Nevermore  to  need  your  care. 


A  WOMAN'S  HEAET. 

MY  heart  sings  like  a  bird  to-night 
That  flies  to  its  nest  in  the  soft  twilight, 

And  sings  in  its  brooding  bliss  ; 
Ah  !  I  so  low,  and  he  so  high. 
What  could  he  find  to  love  ?  I  cry, 

Did  ever  love  stoop  so  low  as  this  ? 

As  a  miser  jealously  counts  his  gold, 
I  sit  and  dream  of  my  wealth  untold, 

From  the  curious  world  apart ; 
Too  sacred  my  joy  for  another  eye, 
I  treasure  it  tenderly,  silently, 

And  hide  it  away  in  my  heart. 

Dearer  to  me  than  the  costliest  crown 
That  ever  on  queenly  forehead  shone 

Is  the  kiss  he  left  on  my  brow  ; 
Would  I  change  his  smile  for  a  royal  gem 
His  love  for  a  monarch's  diadem  \ 

Change  it  ?     Ah.  no,  all,  no  ! 

My  heart  sings  like  a  bird  to-night 
That  flies  away  to  its  nest  of  light 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART.  205 


To  brood  o'er  its  living  bliss ; 
Ah  !  I  so  low,  and  he  so  high, 
What  could  he  find  to  love?  I  cry, 

Did  ever  love  stoop  so  low  as  this? 


WAKNING, 

WHEN  enwrapped  in  rosy  pleasure, 
Our  careless  pulses  beat, 
With  a  rhythm  sweet,  sweet. 

To  the  music's  merry  measure. 

When  world  waves  rise  around  us, 
With  soft  transparent  weight. 
Light  in  seeming,  yet  so  great, 

The  liquid  chains  have  bound  us. 

Then  softly  downward  falling, 
If  we  listen,  we  can  hear, 
From  a  purer  atmosphere, 

A  warning  and  a  calling. 

'Tis  not  uttered  to  our  ear, 
To  our  spirit  it  is  spoken, 
In  the  wonderful,  unbroken 

Heavenly  speech  that  spirits  hear. 

Strange  and  solemn  doth  it  roll 
Downward  like  a  yearning  cry, 
From  that  belfry  far  on  high, 

Warning,  calling  to  our  soul. 


WARNING,  207 


Ever,  ever,  cloth  it  roll, 

Our  angel  guards  the  tower, 
Hinging,  ringing,  every  hour, 

Warning,  calling  to  our  soul. 


GEN1EVE  TO  HER  LOVER 

I  TURN  the  key  in  this  idle  hour 
Of  an  ivory  box,  and  looking,  lo — 

See  only  dust — the  dust  of  a  flower  ; 

The  waters  will  ebb,  the  waters  will  flow, 
And  dreams  will  come,  and  dreams  will  go, 
Forever. 

Oh,  friend,  if  you  and  I  should  meet 

Beneath  the  boughs  of  the  bending  lime. 

Should  you  in  the  same  low  voice  repeat 
The  tender  wrords  of  the  old  love  rhyme, 
It  could  not  bring  back  the  same  old  time,, 
Kever. 

When  you  laid  this  rose  against  my  brow, 
I  was  quite  unused  to  the  ways  of  men, 

AVith  my  trusting  heart  ;  I  am  wiser  now, 

So  I  smile,  remembering  my  heart-throbs  then, 
The  dust  of  a  rose  cannot  blossom  again, 
Kever. 

The  brow  that  you  praised  has  colder  grown, 
And  hearts  will  change,  I  suppose  they  must, 


GEN1EVE  TO  HER  LOVER.  209 

A  rose  to  be  lasting,  should  blossom  in  stone, 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust, 
Dead  are  the  rose,  the  love,  and  the  trust, 
Forever. 


THE   WILD  EOSE. 

IN  a  waste  of  yellow  sand,  on  the  brow  of  a  dreary  lull, 
A  slight  little  slip  of  a  rose  struggled  up  to  the  light, 

The  seed  maybe  was  sown  there  by  the  south  wind's  idle 

will, 
But  there  it  grew  and  blossomed,  pale  and  white. 

Only  one  flower  it  bore,  and  that  was  frail  and  small, 

But  I  think  it  was  brave  to  try  to  grow  at  all. 

In  groves  of  fair  Cashmere,  or  sheltered  garden  of  kings, 
Sweet  with  a  thousand  flowers,  with  birds  of  paradise 

Fanning  her  blushing  cheeks  with  their  glowing  wings, 
Praising  her  deepening  bloom   with  their  great   bright 
eyes, 

Life  would  have  been  a  pleasure  instead  of  a  toil, 

To  my  pale  little  patient  rose  of  the  sandy  soil. 

Did  she  ever  sadly  think  of  her  wasted  life, 

Folding  her  wan  weak  hands  so  helpless  and  still ; 

And  the  great  oak  by  her  sheltering  glad  bird  life, 
And  the  thirsty  meadows  praising  the  running  rill ; 

She  could  hear  the  happy  work-day  song  of  the  busy  brook. 

While  she,  poor  thing,  could  only  stand  and  look. 


TIIK   WILD  ROSE.  211 

Did  the  wee  white  rose  ever  think  of  her  lonely  life, 
That  there  were  none  to  care  if  she  tried  to  grow  ; 

Xone  to  care  if  the  cloud  that  hung  in  the  west 

Should  burst,  and  scatter  her  pale  leaves  far  and  low  I 

Did  she  ever  wish  that  the  heavy  cloud  would  fall 

And  hide  her,  so  unblcst,  from  the  sight  of  all  ? 

One  sky  bends  o'er  rich  garden  flowers,  and  those 
That  dwell  in  barren  soil,  untended  and  unblest ; 

And   I   think  that  God  was  pleased  with  the  small  white 

rose, 
That  tried  so  patiently  to  live  and  do  its  best ; 

That  bravely  kept  its  small  leaves  pure  and  fair 

()u  the  waste  of  dreary  sand,  and  the  desert  air. 


OUR  BIRD. 

SHE  lay  asleep,  and  her  face  slione  white 

As  under  a  snowy  veil, 
And  the  waxen  hands  clasped  on  her  breast 

Were  full  of  snowdrops  pale ; 
But  a  holy  calm  touched  the  baby  lips, 

The  brow,  and  the  sleeping  eyes, 
The  look  of  an  angel  pitying  us 

From  the  peace  of  Paradise. 

And  now  though  she  lies  'neath  the  coffin-lid, 

We  cannot  think  her  dead  ; 
But  we  think  of  her  as  of  some  delicate  bird 

To  a  milder  country  fled. 
'Twas  a  long,  dark  flight  for  our  gentle  dove, 

Our  bird  so  tender  and  fair ; 
But  we  know  she  has  reached  the  summer  land 

And  folded  her  white  wings  there. 


THE    TIME    THAT   IS   TO   BE. 

I  AM  thinking  of  fern  forests  that  once  did  towering  stand, 
Crowning  all  the  barren  mountains,  shading  all  the  dreary 
land. 


Oh,  the  dreadful,  quiet  brooding,  the  solitude  sublime, 
That  reigned  like  shadowy  spectres  o'er  the  third  great  day 
of  time. 

In  long,  low  lines  the   tideless  sea  on  dull  gray  shores  did 

break, 
No   song  of  bird,  no  gleam  of  wing,  o'er  wood    or  reedy 

lake — 


No  flowers  perfumed  the  pulseless  air,  no  stars,  no  moon, 


no 


sun 


To  tell  in  silver  language,  night  was  past,  or  day  was  d 


Only  silence  rising  with  the  ghostly  morning's  misty  light, 
Silence,  silence,  settling  down-  upon  the  moonless,  starless 
night. 


2U  THE  TIME  THAT  IS   TO  BE. 

And  the  ferns,  and  giant  mosses,  noiseless  sentinels  did  stand, 
Looking  o'er  the  tideless  ocean,  watching  o'er  the  dreary 
land. 

Ferns  gave  place  to  glowing  olives,  and  clusters  dropping 

wine, 
Mosses  changed  to  oaken  tissues,  and  cleft  to  fragrant  pine. 

Deft  and  noiseless  fingers  toiled,  and  wrought   the  great 

Creator's  plan, 
Through  countless   ages  moulding  earth  for  the  abode  of 

man. 

Till  each  imperial  day  was  bound  by  sunset's  crimson  bars, 
The  purple  columns  of  the  night  crowned  with  the  shining 
stars. 

The  ripe  fruit  seeks  the  sunlight  through  all  the  clustering 

leaves, 
The  earth  is  decked  with  golden  maize,  and  costly  yellow 

sheaves. 

Countless  silent    centuries  passed   in   fashioning  good  that 

doth  appear, 
Shall  we  weary  and  grow  hopeless,  waiting  for  the  Golden 

Year  ? 


Thy  kingdom  come,  in  which  Thy  will  is  done, 
J^rom  myriad  souls  rises  the  yearning  cry  ; 


THE  TIME  THAT  IS   TO  BE. 

Scatter  palm-boughs — behold,  a  brighter  sun 
Shall  dawn  in  splendor,  in  a  clearer  sky  ; 
Upon  the  distant  hills  a  glow  we  see, 
That  tells  us  of  the  Time  that  is  to  be. 

The  desert  then  shall  blossom  like  the  rose, 
The  almond  nourish  on  the  rocky  slopes ; 

Wisdom  and  beauty  in  rare  union  close, 
Making  earth  beautiful  beyond  our  hopes. 

High  in  the  dusky  east  a  star  we  see, 

A  herald  of  the  Time  that  is  to  be. 

The  free-born  soul  shall  not  be  captive  then, 
Bound  by  decaying  cords  of  narrow  creeds, 

God's  image  shall  more  clearly  shine  in  men, 
Divinely  shaped  by  holy  aims  and  deeds. 

Gleam,  golden  star,  oh  gleam  o'er  earth  and  sea, 

A  herald  of  the  Time  that  is  to  be. 

Fetters  are  broken,  so  the  fern-leaves  fall, 
A  richer  growth  is  budding,  wondrous  fair, 

The  flower  of  liberty  shall  bloom  for  all, 
And  all  shall  breathe  the  healing  of  the  air  ; 

The  blessed  air  that  wraps  a  people  free, 

Within  that  glorious  Time  that  is  to  be. 

For  what  is  slavery  but  woe  and  crime, 
And  freedom  is  but  liberty  from  these ; 


216  THE  TIME  THAT  IS   TO  BE. 

Oli  perfect  hours,  ye  come,  fair  and  sublime, 

Bearing  the  sweet  form  of  the  baby,  Peace, 
Shine,  golden  star,  oh  shine  o'er  earth  and  sea, 
A  herald  of  the  Time  that  is  to  be. 


A  NE  W  BOOK  B  Y  jOSJAH  ALLEN'S 
WIFE. 

S^EET  CICELY.— A  story  of  the  Joslah  Allen's  Wife  s  Series. 
Of  thrilling  Intei  est.    Over  100  Illustrations,  12mo,  cloth,  $2.00. 

"  Josiah  Allen's  Wife  "  has  always  been  a  shrewd  observer  of 
human  nature  as  it  reveals  itself  in  the  round  of  homely,  every 
day  life,  and  the  keen  sarcasm  and  adroit  humor  with  which 
she  lays  bear  its  fo  bles,  its  weaknesses  and  its  grotesque  out- 
croppings  has  rarely,  if  ever,  been  equaled.  The  strong  feature 
of  all  Miss  Holley's  humor,  is  its  moral  tone.  The  present 
work  will  treat  the  "  temperance  sentiment  "  In  new  phase- 
that  of  a  semi-humorous  novel. 

SOME  OPINIONS  OF  "JOSIAH  ALLEN'S  WIFE": 
The  Woman's  Journal,  Boston:  "The  keen  sarcasm,  cheerful 
wit  and  cogent  arguments  of  her  books  have  convinced  thous 
ands  of  the  'folly  of  their  ways,'  for  wit  can  pierce  where 
grave  counsel  fails." 

The  Herald,  New  York:  "  Her  fun  is  not  far-fetched,  but  easy 
and  spontaneous.  She  is  now  witty,  now  pathetic,  yet  ever 
strikingly  original." 

The  Home  Journal,  New  York :  "  She  is  one  of  the  most  origi 
nal  humorists  of  the  day." 

The  New  Era,  Lancaster,  Pa.:  "Undoubtedly  one  or  the 
truest  humorists.  Nothing  short  of  a  cast-iron  man  can  resist 
the  exquisite,  droil  and  contagious  mirth  of  her  writings." 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  New  York* 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  RACHEL. 

A  New  Novel.  Ky  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE.  i2mo,  paper,  150.; 
do  h,  $i. 

CHRISTIAN  UNION,  N.  Y.  "  Probably  no  American  has  a  more 
devo.ed  constituencv  of  readers  than  Mr.  Edward  Everett  Hale, 
and  to  all  these  his  latest  s  ory,  •  1  he  Fortunes  of  Rachel,'  will 
bring  genuine  pleasure.  Mr.  Ha'e  is  emphatically  a  natural 
writer;  he  loves  to  interpret  common  things  and  to  deal  with  aver 
age  persons.  He  does  this  with  such  insight,  with  such  noble 
conception  of  life  and  of  his  work,  that  he  discovers  that  profound 
interest  which  belongs  to  the  humblest  as  truly  as  to  the  most 
brilliant  forms  of  life.  .  .  .  'J  his  stoiy  is  a  thoroughly  Ameri 
can  novel,  full  of  incident,  rich  in  strong  traits  of  character,  and 
iu.l  of  stimulating  thought;  it  is  wholesome  and  elevating.  ' 

BOSTON  JOURNAL.  "  The  virtue  of  the  book  is  the  healthful, 
encouraging,  kindly  spirit  which  prevades  it,  and  which  will  help 
one  to  battle  with  adverse  circumstances,  as  indeed,  aH  Mr.  Hale's 
stories  have  helped." 

NEW  YORK  JOURNAL  OF  COMMERCE.  "A  pnre'y 
American  story,  original  all  through,  and  Rachel  is  one  of  the 
pleasantest  and  jnost  satisfactory  of  heroines.  She  is  a  girl  of  the 
soil,  unspoiled  by  foreign  travels  and  conventinnalites.  After 
surieiiing  on  romances  whose  scenes  are  laid  abroad,  it  is  dehght- 
iul  to  come  across  a  healthy  home  product  like  this." 

RUTHERFORD. 

A  New  Novel.     By  EDGAR  FAWCETT.    Author  rf  "An  Ambitious 

Woman,"  "A  G°ntlemtn  of  Leisitre,"  A  Homeless  Case," 

''  Tinkling'  Cymbals,"  etc.     lamo,  paper,  25  cts; 

c  oth,  extra  paper,  $1.00. 

BOSTON  GLOBE.  "  Truly  Mr.  Fawcett  has  here  wrought  with 
skill  in  producing  some  original  and  b-autitul  characters.  'J  he 
motive  and  plan  are  those  of  a  better  book  than  he  has  ever  writ 
ten.  .  .  Rutherford  is  poweiful  and  will  contribute  much  to 
the  reputatioii  of  its  clever  auth.  r." 

SAT.  EVENING  GAZETTE,  Boston.  "  This  story  evinces  grace 
as  well  as  facility  of  style,  is  effectively  told  throughout,  and  in 
its  plot  and  character-,  is  decidedly  interesting.  The  sympathies 
of  the  reader  are  keenly  en  isted  for  two  of  tr>e  characters  who  have 
been  reduced  from  wealth  to  poverty,  and  the  re  anon  of  their  ex 
periences  in  the  latfr  form  of  life  affords  opp  >rtunitv  for  a  very 
effective  exhibition  of  this  p^aj-e  of  New  York  experience.  The 
book  is  one  of  the  must  elaborate  of  Mr.  Fawcett's  novels." 

NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE.  "  Mr.  Fawcett's  story.  *  Rutherford,' 
is  more  serious  in  plan  than  most  of  his  sot  iety  novel*;  it  has  a 
motive  which  is  not  only  tragical,  but  impressive.  .  .  .  It  is 
well  constructed,  and  contains  i-ome  excellent  sketches  of  fash, on- 
able  life  and  touches  of  satire." 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  N.  Y. 


ARCHIBALD  MALMAISON. 

A  New  Novel.  By  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE,  izmo,  paper,  15  cts.; 
cloth,  extra  paper,  75  cts. 

INDEPENDENT,  N.  Y.  "  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  can  choose  no 
better  compliment  upon  his  new  romance,  '  ARCHIBALD  MALMAI 
SON,'  than  the  assurance  that  he  has  at  last  put  forth  astory  which 
reads  as  if  the  manuscript,  written  in  his  father's  indecipherable 
handwriting  and  signed  'Nathaniel  Hawthorne,'  had  lain  shut  into 
a  desk  for  twenty-five  years,  to  be  only  just  now  pulled  out  and 
printed.  It  is  a  masterful  romance  ;  short,  compressed,  terribly 
dramiticin  its  important  situations,  based  upon  a  psychologic 
idea  as  weird  and  susceptible  of  startling  treatment  as  possible. 
It  is  a  book  to  be  read  through  in  two  hours  but  to  dweil  in  th«. 
memory  forever.  The  employment  of  the  central  theme  and  the: 
literary  conduct  of  the  plot  is  nearly  beyond  criticism.'1 

R.  If.  STODDARD,  /A'  NEW  YORK  MAIL  AND  EXPRESS, 
"  I'he  climax  is  so  terrible,  as  the  London  Times  has  pointed  out, 
and  so  dramatic  in  its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  class  it 
with  nny  situation  of  modern  fiction.  .  .  Mr.  Hawthorne  is 
clearly  and  easily  the  first  of  living  romancers." 

THE  LONDON  TIMES.  "  After  perusal  of  this  weird,  fantanic 
tale  (Archibald  Malmaison),  it  must  be  admitted  that  upon  the 
shoulders  of  Julian  Hawthorne  has  descended  in  no  small  degree 
the  mantle  of  his  more  illustrious  father.  The  climax  is  so  teirible, 
and  so  dramatic  in  its  intensity,  that  it  is  impossible  to  class  it 
with  nny  situation  of  modern  fiction.  There  is  much  psychologi 
cal  ingenuity  shown  in  some  of  the  rpore  subtle  touches  that  lend 
an  air  of  leality  to  this  wild  romance." 

THE  LONDON  GLOBE.  "  '  Archibald  Malmaison  '  is  one  of  the 
most  daring  attempts  to  set  the  wildest  fancy  masquerading  in  the 
cloak  of  science,  which  has  ever,  perhaps  been  made.  Mr.  Haw 
thorne  has  managed  to  combine  the  almost  perfect  construction  of 
a  typical  French  novelist,  with  a  more  than  typically  German 
power  of  conception."  i 

THE  ACADEMY.  •'  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  a  more  powerful  imagin 
ation  than  any  contemporary  writer  of  fiction.  He  has  the  very 
uncommon  gift  of  taking  hold  of  the  reader's  attention  at  once, 
and  the  still  more  uncommon  gift  of  maintaining  his  grasp  when  it 
is  fixed."  

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  St.,  N.  Y. 


THE  HOYT-WARD  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  PRAC 
TICAL  QUOTATIONS. 

Prose  and  Poetry.    Nearly  20,000  Quotations  and  50,000  lines  of 
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It  contains  the  celebrated  quotations  and  all  the  useful  Proverbs 
and  Mottoes  from  the  English,  Latin,  French,  German,  Italian, 
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It  has  a  vast  concordance  of  nearly  50,000  lines,  by  which  any 
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Bible. 

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THE  ONLY  STANDARD  BOOK  OF  QUOTATIONS. 

Invaluable  to  the  Statesman,  Lawyer  Editor,  Public  Speaker, 
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NOAH  PORTER,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  Pres.  Yale  College.     "It  will 
be  a  help  and  a  pleasure  to  m*»ny." 

HON.  SAMUEL    J.   RANDALL,    WASHINGTON.     "The 
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HON.  ABRAM  S.  HEWITT.    "  The  completeness  of  its  indices 
is  simply  astonishing.'* 

HON.  F.  T.  FRELINGHUYSEN,  Secretary  of  State.      "  Am 
much  pleased  with  the  Cyclopaedia  of  Quotations." 

HENRY  WARD  B  EEC  HER.      "Good  all  the  way  through, 
especially  the  proverbs  of  all  nations." 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW.  >  "  Can  hardly  fail  to  be  a  very 

successful  and  favorite  volume.'" 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS.    "Its  variety  and  fullness    and  the 
completeness  ot  its  index  gives  it  rare  value  to  the  scholar." 

Royal  octavo,  over  900  pp.  Cloth,  $5.00;  Sheep.  $6.50:  Fancy 
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Extra  Finish  and  Gilt,  $10.00. 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS,  Publishers,  N.  Y. 


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